


Kingdom For A Heart

by checkmat3y



Series: The King and his Prince [4]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, Asphyxiation, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Bruises, Choking, Closet Sex, Comeplay, Coming In Pants, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Dubious Consent, ESPY Awards, Face-Fucking, Feelings, Feels, Fighting, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Manhandling, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, Shower Sex, Slut Shaming, Unresolved Sexual Tension, slight age play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkmat3y/pseuds/checkmat3y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LeBron and Steph both attend the ESPY awards. Things get heated in a coat closet. And then a hotel room..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at summaries. I was hitting a writer's block, and my disease has been bothering me a lot lately. :/ Not to bring ya'll down! Here's some shit I thought of when I was watching the ESPY's. Gave you guys some feels! More feels? Less feels? More sex?

Steph lifts a glass of champagne from one of the many trays circulating amongst the great and the powerful that had been invited to the ESPY’s after party. The award show had gone well, but the seating could have been better. Steph had been assigned a seat beside the rest of his team in the front row, but it was far from LeBron and the rest of the Cavalries.

 

It was to be expected, but it had been distracting all the same. As much as he had wanted to get up and sit by LeBron, Steph had shamefully restrained himself from the urge to make a scene. It had been a little bit like torture to have to act professional and ignore him. All night he could feel the tingle of adrenaline under his skin, the burn of it electric in his body. It’s not like they weren’t separated all the time, miles and miles apart. But with LeBron so close and not playing on a court, it made Steph jittery and nervous. The need to talk to him was sickening.

 

He just wanted to seem amicable to the public and talk to LeBron.

 

He tells himself that’s all it is, a lie born of desperation and anxious, constant, nagging worry he can’t ever entirely escape, and he knows he should stop. The lying to himself has gotten worse. It’s gotten worse; not better, as the weeks have gone by and they haven’t spoken to each other. It seems like every other day he texts him, lies to himself that it’s because he wants LeBron to think he’s unaffected, doesn’t care, only texts casual small talk. LeBron replies half of the time, half of the time he ignores it. There have been no phone calls or expectations for a meet.

 

He’s gotten better at handling the constant electricity that comes with LeBron’s presence since this thing started. Steph can think back on some of those first few interactions after his internal crisis and cringes at how pathetic his every action feels in retrospect, when even his attempts at casual interaction twisted fell flat.

 

And it’s gotten easier since then, simpler to fall into the habits of familiarity around the constant presence of something in his chest, until the fact of his own infatuation presses at the back of his mind, he ignores it the same way he ignores the sound of his own voice in his throat. It’s bearable, at least, and that’s enough to live with, a burden that Steph can imagine carrying through his life without major issues.

 

At least, that’s how it usually is. Now that they’re in the same room again after their last heated meet, he can feel the tug of want. Steph had become separated from his family in the confusion of moving from the theatre to the after party ballroom, and he’d taken advantage of the opportunity to speak with other players and athletes, mingle as much as he could, knowing that these social events were often the places where the paparazzi would nots how up.

 

It was good for his reputation too. The press would say he was in good spirits, not at all sore about the championship loss. But now he really wanted to find LeBron and was honestly starting to get a bit weary of the kissing ass that was also a solid part of these kinds of events.

 

As his eyes scan the crowd for LeBron, he sees his mother talking to Kyrie near the open bar and almost walks over, giving up on the search when -- there. Black fabric, a custom tailored suit, rather than the clinging t-shirt Steph last saw, and the hair is right, those shoulders and that walk and the shape of the hands. H knows those, doesn’t need to see LeBron’s face to recognize him.

 

His next thought disgusts him. LeBron looked so handsome, Steph doesn’t want to admit, as LeBron stands there, glass in hand, laughing at something JR had said. Steph’s mouth is open around a call of delighted recognition before he chokes it back. He hasn’t been answering your texts this week, his mind points out. He doesn’t want to see you; he’ll ignore you. He already knows you’re here.

 

Maybe Steph was far less obvious than he felt like he was; maybe his behavior seemed hardly unusual when seen through LeBron’s eyes instead of the self-awareness of his own. All night he had been thinking about their last encounter, has been turning it over and over in his head all day instead of paying attention to the award show, the taunts Klay greeted him with at commercial break. His heart has been pounding him into overactive adrenaline all night, as if he’s fallen back in time during the finals, when every flutter of LeBron’s lashes nearly stopped his heart.

 

It didn’t seem like that big a deal this morning when he got ready for the event, when he decided to casually mention LeBron to Klay over lunch. But it’s been gaining importance all night, until he feels like he’s going to give himself away the moment he opens his mouth. He eases up a bit as he walks closer and closer, LeBron’s back to him, and he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He can feel every second like a countdown, seconds until they speak.

 

But he has to talk to him like nothing is wrong, he told himself he would and that means he has to, and finally he just does, blurting “Hey man,” while JR laughs at something said before Steph walked up. He can feel his heartrate pick up as soon as the words are past his lips, can feel adrenaline spike hot in his veins as LeBron turns his body to look at Steph. He’s holding a glass of champagne in one hand and keeps the other in his trousers pocket, standing next to a dressed-up, for once, Jr Smith.

 

LeBron smirks at him and says, “What up?” as calmly as if he didn’t notice the strain on Steph’s voice or the jittery tension running all through the other’s body. Jr Smith turns his head to look at Steph with a raised brow but Steph’s not even looking at him; he has his head tipped up and staring directly at LeBron with half-formed attention behind his eyes.

 

Steph can see his lips shift on the tension of a smile, knows that he’s about to be teased in the moment before LeBron continues, “Nice speech.” Short and sweet, but it’s clearly sarcasm. LeBron’s smile so sharp it makes the taunt under his statement clear as nothing more than mockery.

 

“I guess I thought you said enough,” Steph replies, setting his own glass down on a table nearby with more force than he intends before LeBron can see the flicker of hurt. “The fuck?” He hears JR mutter irately, can see him in his peripheral shaking his head. Steph’s still watching LeBron, whose eyes are dark with amusement to match the smirk still clinging to his lips.

 

It would be so easy for him to push too far, to see how far he can push him in this game with the wrong company at the wrong place; Steph’s heart twists at the idea, his skin prickling with horror at the thought. He wonders if he would even know what he really feels, if LeBron wouldn’t just disappear like a shadow with the coming of the dawn and evaporate back out of his life as fast as he toppled into it.

 

His throat is tight with the idea, his hands trembling for lack of utility, for the inability to do anything to stop the crisis he can see too clearly in his imagination. But there’s nothing to do, no action he can take to undo the danger Steph is so keen on surrounding himself with, and in the end all he can manage is the complete inadequacy of “Nothing, man. Just congratulations.” He retorts quickly before JR can say anything else.

 

But JR doesn’t have time to respond because LeBron cuts them both off. “Thanks, appreciate it,” He sounds unsteady just for a moment, like he might actually feel awkward with JR standing next to them. Steph’s heart lifts, hope lighting itself bright in his veins that LeBron might actually want to be alone with him; but then LeBron laughs, a sharp cough of sound loud enough to chase away any hope Steph had of winning his point. “S’that why you came over here? Just to rub it in your own face?”

 

JR immediately starts laughing with his head thrown bacl, and LeBron is full-on grinning now. It attracts some attention from two females nearby. “Yeah, have your fun for now,” Steph snaps, holding LeBron’s stare, keeps looking at him as he processes the other’s words. It’s the laughter, he thinks, that crackles so bright through him, that sparks the beginning of anger into his veins; it’s the amusement that falls so easily from LeBron’s lips at Steph’s concern, as if the mere possibility of Steph being nice to him in public is too absurd to bear.

 

It aches in him, runs up against the barrier of self-conscious on his tongue and sweeps over it until he’s blurting more honesty than he intends, spilling words on a flood of frustrated fear before he can think them through. “Just wait ‘till next year when everyone is saying repeat and you’re getting your ass handed to you.” Steph licks his lips after he finishes and forces a smile as he reaches out to brace the strain in his fingers against a table like that will ground him to silence; the adrenaline is too hot in him.

 

“You’d know what that feels like, fresh off the dick,” LeBron retorts, and his mouth twists down again, cutting the shape of a frown before his smile reurns. The words ache in Steph’s chest, too personal. But JR is laughing, and he even hears some girls start giggling. He knows Jr thinks LeBron meant it metaphorically, but the double-entendre he knows too well burns Steph. He can actually feel his heart start to pound, face warm with anger

 

“Only took you thirteen years,” Steph snaps with unusual aggression. It’s nearly enough to crack LeBron’s smile; only the years of practice keep it in place as his fingers tighten aground his drink, tilting his head like it will hide the shake of emotion in his voice. “Or do you only count ten?”

 

JR stops laughing and glares at Steph, immediately stepping forward until LeBron grabs his arm, holding him in place. Steph remains unshaken, knows LeBron would never let JR embarrass them in front of everyone at such a public event. LeBron’s reaction, however, is completely indifferent, shrugging nonchalantly at the comment, the motion casual and amused, completely manufactured. “At least I made it to the finals every year,” LeBron comments, tightening his grip on JR to keep him silent.

 

Besides his hold on his teammate, he doesn't really seem angered by his words, which infuriates Steph. Doesn’t he at least have the grace to be annoyed? It rattles Steph, so he steps in closer, breathes in deep, ready to strike; he can smell the alcohol off JR’s breath, can smell the faint musky smell of LeBron’s aftershave.

 

"Some of us got fucking injured," Steph scoffs after a moment, when the rush of bitterness in his veins has steadied out and he can trust his voice to not quake itself into incoherence. He's angry—but what right does he have to be angry? And he’s not the only one. LeBron is still holding JR by his arm, who doesn’t seem to easing up any time soon. He tries to tug his arm out of LeBron’s grip and mutters, ”Come on, man, I ain’t gonna do nothing to this little bitch,” and LeBron meets his words with a steady glare, turning away from Steph. He tries not to notice how big LeBron’s hands are around the other man’s arm, tries to think about the last time they were on him.

 

The tension in the air rises as Steph spots Kyrie walking toward them, who nods at LeBron and JR. He stops midstride and looks them both up and down for a moment, most likely noticing JR and Steph’s angry expression, JR’s heated words, and LeBron holding him back. Steph flushes a little, embarrassed that the situation has escalated. And he knows if it wasn’t for LeBron, JR would have done something pretty stupid in retaliation.

 

Steph bites the inside of his cheek to stop any words from tumbling out while he drums his fingers on the table where he put his drink. He can’t breathe for a moment. His heart is hammering itself into double-time, adrenaline catching up. LeBron glances away from JR and meets Kyrie’s eyes then back to JR, assessing the situation. For a moment, Steph thinks something will happen but then there’s an unspoken agreement between them all, and LeBron lets go of JR’s arm and reaches his hand out to grab his drink, acting as if nothing had happened.

 

"What’s up?” Kyrie inquires, a little tentatively, and Steph realizes that, by this point, the whole room has at least a vague idea of what is going on. Goddammit. That's not really an ideal situation to be in.  LeBron doesn’t meet his gaze when he looks and instead watches JR, who looks annoyed as he wipes the front of his lapels as if he’s removing dirt. He’s muttering something about LeBron not having to grab him and something else Steph doesn’t catch.

 

Steph’s skin prickles with discomfort. "Nothing, man," He says quickly before LeBron or JR can answer. Inside, he's imploring Kyrie to keep walking, but the other stands there a second longer, looking back and forth between him, LeBron. It’s more than obvious something is going on, and JR’s irate gabbling isn’t helping. "Yeah," LeBron agrees, giving his best, most false smile. "We all good." But Kyrie isn’t buying it and glances over at JR, who tosses back the drink in his hand gracelessly, quieting himself.

 

Kyrie looks away from them and around the room at the crowd of people, and Steph tries not to let the panic in his stomach come out through his actions. “Yeah?” Kyrie asks, looking at Steph now, his concern for him clear all over his features. He looks younger when he worries, a crease settling into his forehead that strips away the gap in their ages until Steph feels the elder.

 

 “Just talkin’ smack,” Steph says instead, ready for the sour taste of a lie on his tongue. But it doesn’t come, his words fall even and steady from his lips, and as Kyrie’s face clears into relief Steph can feel the tension of surprise collect unseen behind his own.

 

Kyrie smiles back, an apology formed of the curve of his mouth and the slump of his shoulders, as if he’s trying to pretend he’s smaller than he is. “Yeah, okay,” He hesitates, concern flickering over his features. “Just thought somethin’ was going on.”

 

Steph can taste unwarranted irritation on his tongue, frustration that has a lot more to do with an indifferent LeBron than with the deliberate gentleness of Kyrie treating him like a child. Knowing it’s unjustified isn’t enough to stop his jaw tightening with anger, though, and with the anxiety still pounding through him, Steph can’t manage to even grit out an attempt at civility.

 

“Nothing’s up,” Steph clarifies, but it lacks the fire he had intended to draw, has none of the spark of furious denial he expected. It’s heavy instead, slow and very nearly apologetic. Kyrie’s nods, blinks hard, and for a moment Steph thinks he’s going to leave. Then he swallows, and some of the curve in his shoulders unfolds, and he says, “All right,” and all Steph’s panic evaporates.

 

When he spares a glance at JR, he looks away from Steph, mouth twisting into a frown. “Why don’t you go back to your team,” JR mutters as turns away, casting his features into profile in the light. Steph’s heart is still pounding, his fingers still thumping on the table with the aftereffects of his unfettered surge of adrenaline, but he’s calming even as he reaches for his phone in his pocket, until by the time he closes his fingers around the humming weight of it it’s in no danger of collapsing under a too-rough hold. He doesn’t look at the number, doesn’t hesitate to wonder who’s texting; he just brings the phone out as he keeps his head down.

 

“Yeah, they’re looking for me,” Steph chuckles, trying to sound unaffected and completely calm, but his fingertips are tensing around his phone, holding it out in front of him. He doesn’t even look at the screen even though he ducks his head to look down, instead staring at nothing as his mind blanks. His thoughts are a tangle, looping over and around themselves like they’re trying to gain traction by overlapping threadbare lines of logic.

 

When he looks up from his phone, not really, it’s LeBron who meets his gaze first. “Get on now,” LeBron says slowly. Steph knows he means for the words to come out with a snap, to catch and dig into aggression, but they just sound heavy, like they’ve picked up weight from somewhere he didn’t expect. And Steph doesn’t throw a rebuttal back in his face. He just keeps watching LeBron, his mouth set and his eyes narrow, and after a moment Steph ducks his head back down instead of trying to read LeBron’s emotions from the shadows of Izaya’s stare.

 

Steph reaches for his cup, takes a sip of liquid while he tries to find the words for the weight of anxiety hangs over him. He takes a breath, feeling stress knot in his chest before he shudders out an exhale and lets the panic go. “See ya’ ‘round,” He mumbles casually, slipping his phone back into his pocket and clutching his drink tightly. He starts to walk away, searching the crowd for his family, and tries not to walk too fast, tries not to look back at LeBron. He takes a breath, a long one, the sound dragging in the back of his throat, but it comes out flat as he finally spots his mother across the room.

 

 


	2. deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LeBron texts him to meet in the coat closet. He can't be serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmmm...is this too much feels? I don't know. Is there any? I feel like I am too subtle sometimes.

Steph his almost completely certain he knows what LeBron’s message means.

 

 

The statement was brief, stripped of any emotional context by the medium: a text message, received while Steph was catching up with Klay, simultaneously contemplating going back to his hotel and wallowing in self-pity. The buzz of his phone had been a welcome distraction, if an unexpected one, the more so when he saw the message.

 

 

_James:  Coat room. 5 minutes._

Steph has received texts like this before from him. They are universally vague, some suggestion of reasoning just enough to offer plausible deniability and an excuse for him meet up after or before a game, or when one of them was in town. And -- thus far -- they universally end with far less basketball-related pursuits than the excuse provided would imply.

 

 

This historical record was enough to push all thoughts of hiding in his hotel room out of his head immediately, to turn him away from Klay and start walking without even bothering to come up with a good excuse. “Where you going?” He hears Klay call after him as he begins his pursuit toward the elevator. Waving a hand over his shoulder, he doesn’t bother to glance back at him and yells back, ”Not feeling good, man. Gonna’ head back to my room.” He was on his way down the hall toward the elevator, so Klay must have found it convincing enough because he doesn’t hear anything else.

 

 

It’s only as he’s taking the stairs two at a time -- there was a line for the elevator he didn’t want to deal with-- that Steph begins to wonder if maybe he’s wrong this time. These sorts of summons during a big event are rare, only a handful of times so far and infrequent enough that past experience might not apply to this particular message at this particular event. And considering their last encounter only hours before, he doesn’t even know why he bothers showing up at all.

 

 

The idea slows his pace, convinces him to pull his phone out and open the message again, as if rereading will grant him insight into the other’s mind that months of in-person interaction have yet to achieve. By the time he’s actually reached the hotel lobby, Steph has nearly convinced himself that he’s wrong, that LeBron is just going to have words with him over their last interaction; he should have at least make him wait.

 

 

When he finds the coat room, there’s no longer an elderly man standing inside. Only a sign on the employee entrance that reads “back in 15 minutes, sorry for the inconvenience.” Steph hesitates for a moment. Maybe he read the text wrong. What was he thinking anyways? Meeting LeBron in a coat room? This wasn’t a house party. It’s the fucking ESPYs.

 

 

His uneasiness saps all the energy from his knock, makes it a tap instead of something more certain, which he most definitely isn’t. Knocking on a coat room door? Feeling ridiculous, he quickly looks around the hotel lobby and spots the front desk agent typing at her computer, completely ignoring him. And when LeBron’s voice orders him to “enter,” Steph does so without a trace of the enthusiasm that first pointed his feet in the direction of this ridiculous setting.

 

Actually seeing the other man does nothing to help recover his spirits. LeBron is fully in “serious mode,” only his jacket is missing from his tuxedo and even that was carefully draped over the back of a chair pushed against the wall. He’s staring coldly at Steph with his big arms crossed over his chest as the other hesitantly steps inside. It’s a tight space; there are rows of expensive coats surrounding them, leaving only four to five feet for them both.

 

“What?” Steph asks impatiently, steps forward so fast he trips over his own feet and nearly falls. “You had some shit to say?” That isn’t right, that isn’t quite… “Or you need someone other than your boys to kiss your ass?” The words leave his mouth before he can stop himself, and he bites his cheek as if to stop anything else from spilling out.

 

He is half expecting LeBron to get physical, to start a fight, or for JR to pop out behind him. “Lock it,” is what he says, offering a command instead of the greeting he might use in other circumstances. “Now.” LeBron adds, his voice dipping low and resonant, and all of Steph’s doubt evaporates instantly at the way the other sounds. Unfortunately all his attention does too, any comprehension of the meaning behind the other’s words blowing right past him to leave him gaping and breathless as LeBron covers the distance between them in a few quick strides.

 

 

Steph gives him obedience back, complete surrender to LeBron’s words without even an attempt at a comment, reaching behind himself to twist the lock of the door. It barely takes a push from LeBron on his chest to get Steph against the door, but he manages to stand steady under his own power even if his cheeks are flushed and breath is coming hard. But all LeBron has to do is reach for his shoulder, weight the force of three fingers against the seam of Steph’s tux jacket, and he is folding, knees collapsing under him to drop him to the ground so fast and so hard Steph flinches for the bruises his impact with the floor will leave.

 

LeBron doesn’t seem aware of the pain, doesn’t seem to be thinking of anything at all beyond the narrowed focus he’s turning to Steph and his parted-lip obedience he is offering in answer to the promise of the other’s touch. Because the people who think LeBron is a control freak are right, and Steph it better than anyone, bears the knowledge of it written deep into the instinctive responses of his body that answer LeBron’s commands better than they do his own. LeBron’s gaze drops from Steph’s eyes, trails along his jawline to the top edge of his collar. The hand at the other’s shoulder comes down, fingers working his tie loose from the hold of his jacket so he cab tug on it like it’s a leash, pull Steph in his wake until he inches closer before letting go.

 

“Open,” LeBron says, low because they have to be quiet, because the coat room is empty for now but he has to be able to hear if someone is coming, has to listen for the sound of approaching footsteps so he’ll have time to pull them both into the plausible deniability of late-evening conversation instead of what they are doing,

 

The MVP parts his lips immediately, without looking away, without waiting for the slide of LeBron’s fingers along his jaw and dipping over his tongue, and he can see LeBron’s eyes blow dark at the touch of Steph’s skin to his, can feel the hiss of desperate appreciation as LeBron hooks his thumb into the corner of the other’s mouth for needless support.

 

Steph opens his mouth wider, straining his jaw as far as it will go in desperate obedience to LeBron’s command – knows the other wants to feel Steph’s mouth under the brace of his fingers. Steph likes to let his focus draw in against the warm skin of his fingers as LeBron suddenly reaches for the front of his dress pants. He can hardly breathe for how fast his heart is pounding, can barely think for the heat sparking radiant in his vein, but he opens his mouth, wraps his tongue around one of LeBron’s fingers in a rushed gesture of anticipation.

 

LeBron’s eyelashes dip as he unzips his trousers enough to reach through his boxer briefs and free the weight of his cock, pulling it through the hole in his pants. Steph’s attention drops involuntarily to track the motion, his breathing stuttering high in his chest at the dark-flushed curve of the other’s length. His blood is warming, his heart beating faster now as if he really is just in another hotel room, and not a coat closet. But here he is, spine prickling into anticipation as hot as his breath against LeBron’s thumb, and then he lets out a pathetic whimpering, incoherent noise and reaches out for LeBron’s hips.

 

Suddenly, LeBron rocks himself back. “Stop,” he hisses, refusal angry and quiet, and Steph snatches his hands away like he’s been burnt, looks up at him with his eyes as wide as if he thinks the other might actually pull away, might actually stop in the middle of this mess. And yet, LeBron smirks down at him, which eases the edge of panic in Steph’s eyes, and  reaches out grab Steph’s chin with his other hand, and Steph whines quietly in response, confused appreciation audible even with the barrier of LeBron’s thumb still in his mouth.

 

“Your mouth’s gonna’ be put to better use,” LeBron growls, sliding his hand on his chin to curl against the back of Steph’s head, to spread his fingers wide and bracing against the other’s scalp. “You ain’t been behaving. Talking to me like that-“ He’s breathing hard, Steph can see the shift of air in his chest with each inhale he takes, but his hold on Steph’s hair doesn’t waver, and when LeBron stops midsentence, Steph realizes that LeBron isn’t in complete control here.

 

They’re at a very public affair with a locked door in a coat closet that isn’t really locked at all. Steph doesn’t know where the coat room attendant is, but he can’t be too far away. And when he lets his hands fall slack into his lap, Steph has to take a breath to calm the thrill that hits him. “Be a good bitch,” LeBron whispers, and it’s a command and not just a statement, the words carry the weight of a threat under them if Steph doesn’t obey. “Like that,” And he’s sliding his touch free of Steph’s mouth, turning his palm to cup against the line of the other’s jaw and press the damp of his thumb against his cheek instead.

 

Steph’s eyelashes flutter again, his throat working on a sound too low to break free to the air, but he’s utterly obedient; he doesn’t reach for LeBron’s hips, doesn’t move his head, doesn’t even rock forward for more as LeBron presses the head of his cock past the damp part of the other’s lips. Steph takes a deep breath, rush of air dragging against sensitive skin as LeBron slides forward; and then he catches his fingers under Steph’s jaw, and pushes up very gently to urge the other’s mouth closed around him.

 

He’s thrusting deeper inside, pressing the weight of his cock back across Steph’s tongue and against the back of his throat, and Steph can’t help but whimper some unvoiced note. “Wider, slut,” LeBron growls, and Steph lets his jaw go slack. When LeBron suddenly rocks his hips forward to take a long thrust into the heat of his mouth, Steph lets out a startled incoherent burst of noise around the obstruction; but he’s still not flinching, and his eyelashes are fluttering to dip heavy against his cheeks, and his hands are still slack and obedient in his lap.

 

He hears LeBron take a breath and feels his fingers tighten against his hair; and then he draws back, bracing Steph’s head as he goes, before taking another thrust forward. There’s not much left for Steph to do, not much he can do; the best he can manage is to set his tongue against the head of LeBron’s cock, to lick against the flushed weight of the other’s skin as the other fucks against the drag of his lips and the heat of his mouth.

 

“Yeah, you fuckin’ love it,” LeBron’s voice is low, rumbling against the inside of his chest and grating past the back of his throat. Steph looks up through hooded eyes without lifting his chin, gazes up to see the way the other is looking at him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and black blending in with the dark of his irises, and his mouth is wet, his lips parted and curved into what is very nearly a frown of concentration.

 

LeBron’s thumb slides against Steph’s hair, his hand shifts forward to press at his cheek, and the weight pushes against the open angle of Steph’s jaw, dips in to drag against the slide of his cock into his mouth. Steph moans softly, the sound almost entirely eclipsed to the slide of LeBron’s length against his throat, and the other hisses, sounding nearly in pain for how hot the sound comes out. LeBron pushes in farther, offering more of himself for the drag of Steph’s tongue. Steph whines again, hot and unthinking and desperate, and LeBron tightens his fingers at the other’s hair to shut him up. He draws his hips back, presses his thumb in hard against Steph’s skin to hollow out the line of the other’s cheek against the inside of his mouth.

 

When he rocks his hips forward, Steph knows he is trying to feel the outline of his cock under his thumb, even angles his hips sideways to press hard against the force of his touch, and Steph whimpers and tightens his lips closer around his length, sucks harder as if to draw the other deeper into his mouth.

 

“So defenseless,” He hears the approval rumble like thunder in the back of his throat. LeBron lets his thumb ease, slides his hand down along the line of Steph’s jaw to the curve of his throat to voice encouragement. LeBron’s cock is going salty against the back of Steph’s tongue, the slick heat of it pushing at his throat with each thrust, and Steph knows his throat is tensing against the urge to cough, against reflexive rejection of the threat of intrusion offered by the motion. His vision is going hazy at the very corners, his breathing coming audibly loud in his chest.

 

Steph looks up just in time to see LeBron’s frown tighten. He drags harder at Steph’s short hair, and Steph lets his head fall back to make a smooth unbroken line of his mouth and throat. LeBron snaps his hips forward, his cock slides far back in Steph’s mouth -- and farther, the slick head dipping just down the other’s throat as Steph shudders through his body’s suddenly frantic attempts at air. Steph isn’t listening for footsteps anymore; he’s trusting completely to the lateness of the hour and continued good luck to keep them undiscovered.

 

“Fuck,” LeBron says, uncharacteristic tension working itself up his throat into the shape of a groan. “Knew you’d want this.” Steph’s eyelashes flutter close blocking out all his thoughts, his lips tense for a whimper, and LeBron slides his fingers through the other’s hair, turning the hold he has into the affection of a stroke for just a moment. Steph’s throat is tensing; his heart is pounding itself to a static rhythm, his lungs are fighting for air past the knot of tension collecting in all his limbs.

 

“Such a fucking whore,“ and his hips jolt forward, his cock slides deep into Steph’s mouth, and Steph can’t help but  let out a groan as the first rush of pleasure spills far over the back of his tongue. He shudders under LeBron’s hold, his throat working hard against the weight of the other’s touch, and LeBron pulls back by an inch to give him space to swallow, to give himself the leeway for one last slow thrust forward as his cock pulses heat into the other’s mouth.

 

Steph’s eyes are shut again, his lips tight against LeBron’s length and his breathing hissing hard. But he still tries to lean forward as LeBron draws himself slowly back, still presses his tongue in hard against the head of LeBron’s cock like he’s trying to lick the last traces of come off the other’s skin as he goes. LeBron makes a low sound in the back of his throat, a half-voiced groan of satisfaction as Steph sucks him clean, and then he slides back, pulling his tucking his length into his shorts as Steph licks at the bitter clinging to his lips.

 

“Good boy,” LeBron praises, and Steph blinks up at him to see the smirk curving itself into an edge against his mout as he considers Steph’s upturned face. He reaches out, his fingers catching against the other’s face, and Steph shuts his eyes to the force as LeBron drags his touch across the sticky mess still coating his lips.

 

Steph’s breathing catches in his aching chest as the other’s fingers press against his lip. “Bron,” he manages, and he’s licking the salt off his fingers but his throat is working on words to express himself, heat unfolding itself up his throat like a flower blooming under the fire in his veins. “Um, I-”

 

“Good boy,” LeBron says again, and then he’s dropping, his knee bumping Steoh’s as he falls to kneel in front of the other on the floor. “Good bitch.” His fingers slide free of his mouth, drop down the length of his chest to the zipper on his pants, and Steph’s breathing twists into a whimper in his throat as LeBron’s sticky fingers pull down the zip and dip into the weight of his pants and bozers with certain precision. Steph reaches up, closes his hand on LeBron’s shoulder to steady himself as fingers curl around his length, the damp clinging to the other’s skin stuttering the stroke he takes out of smoothness

 

 It’s still enough to ache relief up Steph’s spine, to knock his knees wider as if in invitation, and LeBron’s grabbing at his short hair again, bracing the weight of the younger man’ tipped-back head in his palm as he rocks up over his knees, as he leans into Steph’s line of vision and starts to jerk him off properly.

 

“LeBron,” Steph breathes, his voice quivering in the back of his throat, and his eyes are endless, the hazel in them gone hot as he stares at LeBron’s smirking face. His thumb catches across the head of his cock, drags a burst of pressure against the sensitive skin, and Steph jerks, his throat giving up a gasp that tastes like LeBron’s name and comes out as raw heat. His feels his hand go sideways, his fingertips straining for traction in Steph’s hair, and Steph doesn’t pull away. He’s leaning in closer instead, his gaze wandering across Steph’s features as his breathing comes fast enough for LeBron to feel it ghosting against his lips.

 

LeBron is just leaning in closer, forcing Steph back against the support of the hand at the back of his head. Gravity is tilting sideways; Steph’s whole weight is given to the grip of the other’s hand in his hair and the reaching fingertips he has pressed to the back of his neck. When LeBron’s fingers skid and jerk him tightly, Steph shudders expectantly. His entire body trembling into the slack weight of relief as LeBron’s touch drags him into orgasm. He moans faintly, a half-stifled sound that still comes out loaded with all the heat in his veins, and LeBron is snickering with  what he hopes is satisfaction as his hold braces Steph through the quivers of pleasure that are trembling through him.

 

Steph gasps for air, the last of the tension in his body easing as the aftershocks fade, and then he opens his eyes and LeBron is smiling at him, the strange, new sharp smile that he has never seen when they’re alone. “Good,” He tells him, purring like he’s impressed, like Steph has performed well in some game. His hold eases, his sticky fingers slide free of Steph’s pants. The younger takes a breath, tries to swallow moisture back into his mouth, but when he opens his lips all he can manage is a breathless, “Bron,” so hot and shaky it’s more a moan than his companion’s name.

 

“Fuckin' bitch,” He breathes, so oddly gentle for the harsh words that it might as well be Steph’s given name, and then he ducks in to catch the other’s breathing at his lips, to fit the sharp edges of his smile to the give of Steph’s mouth. Steph’s eyes flutter shut as his LeBron’s finger press harder at his neck. He parts his lips to the other’s tongue; lets LeBron lick away the bitter salt still clinging to the inside of his mouth.

He doesn’t know how much longer LeBron kisses him. He supports most of his weight and the brace of the other man’s hands at his head and throat take care of the rest so Steph doesn’t have to worry about staying upright. He’s too lost to track time, adrift in aching heat.

 

LeBron pulls away in a rush, lets Steph go so he can push himself up with his hold on Steph, who sits obediently on the floor, sticky with come on his knees. When he blinks up, the other is watching him as he grabs his jacket and shucks it on his shoulders, his mouth still formed around that smile. Steph doesn’t think his expression has so much as flickered this whole time.

 

“Better behave the rest of the night,” LeBron says, his tone as pristine and steady as if they really have been talking this whole time. “You should book another night.” Steph doesn’t comment. He still stares, though, his focus utterly derailed by heat and shock and lingering arousal, until it’s LeBron who says “You heard me?” while Steph is still kneeling against the floor.

 

There’s a pause, long with meaning. Then: “Yeah,” Steph says, his words rubbed raw and grating, stumbling to his feet and pulling his clothes more or less back into place. LeBron drops his smile, clears his throat as he looks away, and moves towards the door without looking back.

 

Steph doesn’t move for minutes after LeBron has left. His underwear is sticky from the mess, his thighs damp with sweat and spit and come and getting stickier the longer he stays still, and he’s certain beyond a doubt that there might be a bruise on his neck.

 

He wonders, now, how he ended back in the King’s chambers after he had just made his way further away from the kingdom.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this listening to smooth jazz. Take that as you will.


	3. trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph is defensive, LeBron is angry. It get's a bit violent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, I was feeling kind of angry when I wrote this. Not sure if I went too far, idk.

Steph doesn’t tell LeBron he’s coming over.

 

 

He doesn’t need to. He receives a text from him earlier this morning telling him when to show up and what room. LeBron doesn’t care if he’s interrupting Steph’s day; concern for the comfort of anyone else never seems to make it high on his list of priorities. 

 

 

_James: 8:30 p.m. room 303_

 

 

Steph had spent most of the day with his family, pampering them at the hotel spa and swimming with his cousins in the pool. His excuse for why he wanted to book another night was to spend more time with them in Los Angeles, a vacation, even took it upon himself to eat with them at a white table cloth restaurant nearby; somewhere he could care less about even with all his money. But he knew it would appease them, tire them out until they went back to their rooms later that night.

 

 

If he was honest with himself, and he never was, he had been anxious all night, even at dinner. He hadn't been able to carry any sort of conversation related to basketball or the awards. All he kept thinking about was that it was almost 24 hours since he was with LeBron, hours of too much free time, too much time alone in his head. So anxious, by the time he’s knocking on LeBron’s door, the knocking has an aggression to it he doesn’t intend, the edges of his facade unraveling over the distance his fist raps against the door.

 

 

“Stop knocking and come in,” LeBron’s voice comes from inside, the deadening effect of the barrier not enough to completely pull the annoyance clear of his tone. “It’s open.”

 

 

Steph reaches for the handle, twists the latch free of the frame. The door creaks inward under his push and gives way to the soft illumination of the hotel room. LeBron is sitting at a table, his laptop open in front of him, but he’s leaning back against a braced arm, his mouth quirking into a smile.

 

 

“You said eight-thirty, right?” Steph says louder than he intends, steps aside so he can push the door shut behind him. He doesn’t step forward; instead he leans back, braces his shoulders at the door so he can let himself sag into a slouch against the support, tilts his hips sideways hoping to draw LeBron’s eyes to him. His heart pounds in his chest, and he swallows in anticipation, always on edge with the other.

 

 

LeBron takes the suggestion without a flicker in his expression, vague appreciation clinging to the corner of his mouth and tucked into the shadows of his eyes. It’s his hands that Steph watches while LeBron looks him over, the long fingers of one hand angled casually against the floor while the other toys with a pen, taps out a rhythm against the tabletop with deceptive gentleness to the motion. Steph can see the flex of LeBron’s fingers, the tension pinning the weight of the pen in place, can already feel the anticipatory ghost of LeBron’s touch against his wrist, his hip, his throat.

 

 

“You read right,” LeBron finally says, after the quiet between them has gone on long enough for Steph’s skin to prickle in expectation under the weight of the other’s consideration. The pen clicks against the table, LeBron carefully setting it aside, and then he’s getting to his feet, an elegant shift of limbs to catch Steph’s gaze, to haze his vision with fantasies of that grace shattered into clumsy injury, Steph’s composure broken beyond repair.

 

 

The thought catches his breathing hot in his chest, aches the tension of desire into the grip of his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t move to meet LeBron’s slow approach, doesn’t try to tangle his foot between the slow stride of the other’s motion.

 

They both know which one of them is the leader, after all.

 

“Eight-thirty,” Steph repeats as LeBron draws closer, tilts his head back and slightly to the side with enough laziness to the motion to imply it’s accidental. He smiles subconsciously, his lips pulling involuntarily taut against the anticipation in his veins. “You checkin’ your twitter? Replying to comments on Facebook?” He forces his expression into a frown, draws his eyebrows together in half-panicked apology so over-the-top it wouldn’t fool any player, much less LeBron himself. He knows social media is a sore spot in LeBron, something he had been teased for before from team mates, and Steph is feeling oddly confident tonight, all his anxiety teetering into arrogance. “I can leave if you were busy.”

 

 

Steph can’t see read LeBron’s eyes. He always disguises whatever expression he is feeling, but it doesn’t matter. Steph can see the other’s consideration in the tilt of his mouth, the tug of almost-a-smile at the corner of his lips, the huff of an exhale he gives through his nose. Steph tips his head back in suggestion, lets his breathing come louder in anticipation, and LeBron suddenly reaches up, as Steph hoped he would, expected he would, places the flexing strength of his fingers against the line of his throat. The contact is gentle, the friction a promise. Steph’s lungs shudder on an inhale, breathing rendered a struggle by the anticipation of pressure.

 

More doesn’t come. LeBron’s fingers fit into a dangerous position, his palm spread wide to encompass the whole tremor of breathing in LeBron’s throat, and then he goes still, silent and unmoving. Steph feels his adrenaline rise, peak, and finally chill into an ache of frustration enough to tip his chin down a half-inch, to fix his gaze on LeBron with a glare he has almost never used on him.

 

 

“What the fuck?” Steph demands, his fingers tightening against his own palms like he can somehow move LeBron’s hold by his own effort.

 

 

“What do you want?” LeBron asks him, as level and calm and unruffled as if Steph hadn’t spoken at all. There’s almost no inflection in his words at all; he could be talking to a teammate, could be talking to a stranger, could be talking to any one of the dozens of acquaintances he has that aren’t him, that don’t know the way his eyes look when he lets his smile go sharp, when he lets his eyes go dark.

 

 

The distance in his tone imposes burns along Steph’s spine, coils anger hot in his stomach, and when he answers it’s accordingly raw in his throat, the insulting gentleness in LeBron’s touch aching worse than complete absence would.

 

 

He hates this, feeling vulnerable in front of the other, something he had felt only a day earlier in a coat closet. He tries to stay cold, pretends this is all he’s here for: to get laid. The anger he feels comes out in his words, and having rarely spoken this way to LeBron before, he immediately regrets it. “What?” he spits, brings his hand swinging up towards LeBron’s extended arm to bat away the overly light touch. “You know what I—“

 

 

His hand hits the inside of LeBron’s wrist, knuckles smacking against the suddenly solid resistance of the other’s hold, and it’s like hitting a wall, much like it is when someone runs into him on the court. It’s his own hand that snaps back, LeBron’s fingers immovable at his throat, and suddenly Steph is leaning in, his hold going taut to press the weight of his thumb hard against the other’s pulse point. His heart rate is steady, unlike his own.

 

 

“Be quiet, bitch,” LeBron orders, the words dipping into the low purr Steph knows well, and he goes still, lets his hand fall limp and unresistant at his side. The king is close, near enough that the low light doesn’t reach the details of his face. Steph can get a glimpse of dark eyes, a flash of teeth, and then LeBron is too close to see, the sound of his breathing gusting hot against Steph’s ear.

 

 

There’s a knee shoving between his own, throwing his balance wide and shaky, but Steph doesn’t try to recover his balance or grab for support at LeBron’s hip or shoulder, trying to remain cold. He lets himself sag instead, the weight of his body and that iron grip at his neck enough to give him the leading edge of the pressure he’s craving.

 

“I know what you want me to do to you,” LeBron says against his ear, almost whispering, the words sounding more like endearments than the almost-threat Steph knows them to be. “You’ve wanted the same thing for months.” His thumb slides up, catching at the bottom edge of Steph’s jawline, and Steph rocks his hips forward, angling for pressure against LeBron’s thigh he can’t quite manage from their current angle.

 

There’s a chuckle against his ear, a hand coming out for his hip, and then LeBron’s fingers are grabbing his shirt by the bottom, holding him back against the door by his clothing instead of the bruise-deep hold against his hip he usually favors. “It’s been since Christmas,” LeBron says, hot and soft at Steph’s ear. He still sounds nearly calm, untouched by the thud of Steph’s fast pulse under his fingers. But there’s a raw edge creeping into the spaces between his words. “Always begging for this shit—“

 

“You’re the one that keeps texting,” Steph coughs, the shape of a laugh too rushed to be amusement in truth, instead it’s an obvious panic of words.

 

LeBron’s hand tightens, presses so hard against Steph’s throat that his breathing is stalled silent, caught in his throat as cleanly as if cut through with a knife. His blood roars hot into his veins, his cock flushing into full hardness against the fly of his jeans, and for a moment Steph can’t see for the surge of adrenaline-satisfaction in his veins. He feels disgusted with himself in this moment, yet he groans, or tries to groan, his chest working on sound that runs up uselessly against the other’s hold.

 

Then pressure is gone, easing off into that same taunting gentleness, and he coughs back into breathing as LeBron starts talking as if the interruption had never happened at all. “It’s the off season now,” He says, breathing the words against Steph’s hair, looking down at him from his elevated height. “I’m not going to keep fuckin’ your whore ass forever.”

 

Steph’s chest goes tight. There’s a strange pressure in his throat, friction working its way from the inside out, like his body has decided to override his broken mind and muster passive resistance to LeBron's force. The heat in his blood is cooling in his veins, leaving his skin hot to the touch but chill in his limbs, like the taste of rejection is ice forming against the lines of his rib cage.

 

“Hey,” Steph manages, the mockery only going a little rough over the ache in his throat, the slip of anxiety over his tongue. “If you texted me here just to mess with me, then I’m gonna’ get outta’ here.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, hesitation thick in the air between them, thrumming hot and heavy, and LeBron is bearing down on Steph’s throat, pinning the knot in his airway between his fingers. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” There’s a moment of pressure, enough to suggest restraint; then it’s gone again, easing off as Steph feels his throat tighten despite the pressure leave.

 

LeBron pulls back, drawing the heat of his breathing back from Steph’s skin. Steph drops his chin in a pointless attempt to cover the flushed heat across his skin; LeBron just stares at him for a moment, frowning. “If you want this shit to continue,” He says, finally, the words dripping condescension that narrows Steph’s eyes, twists his body taut with offended pride. “I’m suggesting you best watch yourself.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Steph challenges, purring familiar taunting over the word because he can do that without thinking, can reply as he ignores the prickle against his spine in fear of what he is about to say next. “Worrying about next year already? Gettin’ ready to lose?”

 

It’s not a very good jab, and Steph knows it. It’s no surprise when LeBron’s frown doesn’t waver, when the tension dipping his eyes into shadow doesn’t recede. “Yeah, good one,” he says, almost-laughing and sounding entirely unfazed. “You can keep tellin’ yourself that, bitch.”

 

The patronizing tone doesn’t bother Steph, used to it by now. He’s heard worse, has gotten used to the sound of insults in LeBron’s silk-smooth tones. It’s not the implied insult that bothers him; it’s the way he can feel LeBron’s hold loosening instead of going tighter, easing out away from the threat of a bruise instead of shoving marks dark against Steph’s neck that he secretly looks at for days after their encounter.

 

“Wait,” Steph says, reaches out to snatch at LeBron’s wrist as the strength of his grip falls away entirely. He steps back anyway, draws his hand with him, and he stumbles forward a step, closes his other hand against LeBron’s arm. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

 

“Let go of me, slut,” LeBron says with perfect equanimity. “If you’re gonna’ play stupid, go after fuckin’ Klay.”

 

“What?” Steph spits, panic threatening in his voice. “Just like that?”

If LeBron is calling this off right now—Steph's heart pounds louder than he's ever heard.

 

“Did I fuckin’ stutter?” LeBron growls, reaches around to pull at Steph’s hold with infuriatingly gentle fingers. “You didn’t even try to be quiet comin’ in.”

 

“Stop,” Steph says, has to stop him while he can. He watches LeBron quirk an eyebrow as if he can't believe what he's heard and finally forces his hand free, but Steph reaches out to grab at his other wrist, catches, and holds LeBron’s prying fingers away from his hold. “You’re getting pissed over that?” Steph tries to think back, tries to remember if there’s anything else he did wrong tonight. Perhaps he is still angered from last night’s events.

 

LeBron’s frown is colder than it has ever looked before. “I told you to behave. But if your stupid ass obviously can’t follow directions—I mean, you obviously can follow Kerr’s, or did he just give up coaching you all—“

 

“No,” He stops LeBron in a panicked state. He wants to step in closer, wants to pick a fight, but LeBron’s lingering frown says this could get ugly. The idea churns nausea into his stomach. “I can. I don’t want to—” _istop_. It’s something he’s never admitted before to himself, let alone LeBron, and Steph wonders in this moment if LeBron has been playing games with him all night, trying to get him to say it.

 

He doesn’t see LeBron move, as usual. It’s too fast, too sudden, and he’s staring at LeBron’s face, all his attention focused on glaring at the unreadable darkness of the other’s eyes. Then he’s gasping, all the air leaving his lungs in a guttural groan of sound, his hold on LeBron’s wrists falling free as he doubles over on himself against the impact of a knee at his stomach. His chest convulses for a moment, the rhythm of his breathing briefly shattered by the shock of the force and then he’s falling, slamming back against the wall from the shove of a fist in his short hair.

 

“Is this what you want?” LeBron hisses, and he’s too close and suddenly smiling. Steph chokes for air and his blood pressure rises so high that he can’t think, can’t even form a thought. “To get at me?” There are fingers at his throat, the hand not pulling at his hair tightening over his pulse, and Steph uses his first full breath of air to whine in disagreement to LeBron’s rhetorical question. A knee comes between his, and LeBron is rocking in close to pin him against the door, the handle digging a bruise into Steph’s spine. His scalp is aching from the pressure of LeBron’s hold and he thinks of what to say to calm him down but nothing is coming to mind.

 

“You come to me to get fucked, right?” LeBron’s voice is lower, now, purring satisfaction over the syllables as his fingers flex variation into the pressure at Steph’s throat. “You wanna' try and find a replacement that will deal with your shit?”

 

Steph hisses half an inhale, rocks himself off the door enough that he can fit his leg to press between LeBron’s, trying angle himself to a moment to see if he can find the grinding pressure against the resistance. For a moment they’re pressed together, LeBron’s cock flush against Steph’s thigh and LeBron’s leg pinning him back against the wall.

 

“You don’t want me to,” Steph tries, reaching out to get his fingers in against LeBron’s hip, to drag fingernails into the other’s skin in crescent-mark bruises under the hem of his shirt. He has no other game here, needs to distract him from the discussion, never wants to admit he actually seeks out LeBron.

 

LeBron’s laugh is startling, loud and sharp and deadly. “I don’t wanna’ fucking disease,” he says, smooth and easy in his confidence. “It’s not like you’re special.” He leans in close, his hold at Steph’s throat easing as his mouth comes closer, until the pressure is nearly gone by the time he can feel the other’s breath against his lips. “Trash like you is easy to come by.”

 

Steph shudders. He can’t help it, doesn’t even bother trying to hide the affect the other has on him, harsh words and harsher tone. His throat aches, pressure from LeBron’s fingers settling in deep with the promise of bruises, and his shorts are grating against his confused cock, the friction too-much and not-enough at the same time. LeBron isn’t even reacting to the catch of his fingernails at his side, is still smiling like he doesn’t feel the pain, and Steph's thoughts go adrenaline-hazy, his rationality flickering like a candle in the faint gust of the king’s breath near his mouth.

 

“Which is it, Steph?” LeBron always makes his words sound like a seduction, the tension of his smile audible under the words. “Do you want to be good for me?” There’s a tightening of his fingers, his thumb sliding along the line of Steph’s pulse. His weight tips forward, his hips rocking closer, and Steph has to fight to keep his eyes open, to hold LeBron’s gaze instead of fluttering into overheated instinct.

 

“Or do you want to call this shit off right here, go and take your trash home?” And he’s moving away again, taking a step back, and loosening his fingers until his hand is splayed loose over the divot between Steph’s collarbones.

 

 The action is chilling, the absence of heat dropping cold all through Steph’s blood, and the suggestion of more—the threat of a far greater loss—is enough to tighten his hold at LeBron’s hip, enough to bring his other hand up to clutch at his shoulder. “No,” he says, then, fast with honesty and a hint of desperation: “You know what I want.”

 

LeBron’s eyebrow goes up, the elegant arch taunting. “Do I?”

 

“Fuck you,” Steph spits, and he’s grabbing at shirt, skin, reaching for whatever he can get, the pain and the pressure and LeBron, the grace of those fingers and the cruelty of his smile and all of it, even the dark taunt in his eyes now. “I don’t want—I want—I’m not leaving.”

 

He intends to snap something further, something along the lines of whether that’s what LeBron wants, if just words are enough to make him happy. But his shoulders are slamming against the wall, and he can’t take a breath and he can’t see anything. Whatever token resistance he intended to put up evaporates into the aching drawl of a groan in his throat.

 

“Good,” LeBron says, hot and too-loud at his ear, and Steph’s head tips sideways, offers the stretch of his neck for the other’s mouth, submitting once gain to his king. There are teeth at his jawline, scraping pressure over his skin, and the fingers are back at his throat, falling into their old position like the bruises they left are handles. LeBron shifts his weight back, rocking the pressure away from Steph’s shorts. But then his other hand is there instead, the palm of his hand shoving in with more force than Steph expected, and his vision flickers white and shocked for a brief breathless moment of sensation.

 

“Mine,” LeBron is saying it, fitting the words against Steph jawline, and he can’t even breathe. The fingers at Steph’s shorts tighten, shove the weight of them flush against the other’s cock, and Steph can feel the ache of sensation surge all the way up his spine to ground out against the fingertips at his throat. “Understand?”

 

Steph whines in response, air forced through a too-tight space, and his chest is starting to ache with the familiar inside-out pressure of not enough airflow. LeBron is shoving against his cock, grinding his palm against him more than really making any attempt to get his shorts open, and Steph doesn’t care, his attention to the world has narrowed to the next few heartbeats of time and nothing else matters.

 

“Tell me you get it,” LeBron intones. His hands start to go gentle, their force sapped by the demand in his words. “Say it, bitch.”

 

“I understand,” Steph gasps. He doesn’t recognize his own voice for how raw it sounds, dragged hot and torn against the ache in his throat. “Yes, ‘Bron.”

 

“Good boy,” LeBron purrs, and then he’s pushing again, and Steph’s awareness goes white from the outside in. He can feel him breathing coming hard at his jaw, panting hot like he’s never heard the other before, but his own is stalled in his chest, his lungs working for air he can’t get.

 

Everything is hazy, white and warm and distant, even the reflexive panic starting to form in the back of his head unimportant in comparison to the heat surging up his spine, the tension of pleasure collecting in his thighs and between his shoulders. He can’t breathe, he can’t move, he’s forming soundless words with lips going numb -- please, maybe, or LeBron -- and then LeBron twists his hand, digs his palm in hard against his shorts, and Steph comes, his fingers clutching desperation against LeBron’s shoulder as his vision gives way to the white-burst of heat against his veins. He just came in his pants like he’s in high school again.

 

He doesn’t notice the tension at his throat easing, at least not in any sort of conscious way, but LeBron must be loosening his hold.. By the time he sags shaky and overheated against the door, he can breathe again, normally but for the lingering contact of fingers against promised bruises.

 

“Good,” LeBron says again, and grabs at Steph’s hair. His fingers drag painful and sharp into a fist, and then he shoves, hard enough that Steph’s unsteady footing gives way before he can process what is happening. He just falls, knees slamming against the floor hard enough to force a gasp of pain from his lips, and then LeBron is manhandling him back, slamming his head against the door and pushing a knee against his chest to hold him in place.

 

Before Steph can form a thought, LeBron says, “Open your mouth,” keeping one hand fisted in his hair while the other reaches for his pants. Steph blinks away from his upward gaze at the other’s face, refocuses on the one-handed elegance of the king undoing his pant. It’s so pure athleticism, in a strange way, or maybe that’s still lingering oxygen deprivation.

 

His own shorts are wet, sticking unpleasantly against his softening girth when he shifts his weight, but he’s not really paying attention to that. He’s watching LeBron’s zipper come down, the catch of a thumb against waistband, the drag of fabric down to free the dark-flushed weight of the other’s cock for Steph.

 

And then there’s a thumb in his mouth, forcing in past his teeth and under his tongue to tighten into a brace against his jaw. “Come on, you know you want my dick,” LeBron says, dark and steady above him, and pushes, hard enough to force his jaw open even if he were really resisting. Steph can taste salt on LeBron’s skin, the suggestion of soap and a touch of sweat. He licks over the other’s knuckle, sucks sloppy and open-mouthed against his skin, and then LeBron’s cock is against his lips, sliding in past his held-open mouth to interrupt the movement of his tongue.

 

It aches right away. LeBron is pulling too hard, holding his mouth open wider than is quite comfortable, and with the hand in his hair to pin his head back, Steph has nowhere to go, no way to slow the thrust of LeBron’s hips forward over his tongue and against his throat. But the sound he’s making isn’t protest, is a half-strangled moan instead. He even reaches up it’s to grab at the other’s hips to pull him in closer rather than push him away.

 

The angle is awkward, the tip of his head a strain on his neck to match the ache of his jaw, but when he looks up he can see the way LeBron is looking at him —the attention in his eyes, the lopsided cut of his forgotten smile —is enough to drop his jaw open and submissive.

 

LeBron’s thumb slides in farther, pushes Steph’s tongue up to force it against his cock, and Steph keeps staring, holds his gaze as his mouth fills with the taste of salt, as the thrust of the other’s hips threatens his breathing. The king drags at his jaw, and Step tilts his head, cock is pushing against the back of his mouth, blocking his airway and dragging raw against his throat. LeBron moans, something meaningless except in the hum of sound it produces, and Steph tries to smile as he feels him pull back to thrust in again, the stroke smooth with deliberation this time as he slides over Steph’s tongue and down his throat.

 

Steph doesn’t know how long it goes on. He’s hazy to begin with, the heat of satisfaction leaving him dreamy and detached from reality. And there’s the restriction on his breathing, the pace of his heart, and the rhythm LeBron sets for him.

 

He just holds onto LeBron’s hips, surprised the other is letting him, and keeps his eyes open to watch LeBron’s gaze go shadowed into something beyond dark. He’s just staring, unresponsive to everything else, until when LeBron finally shuts his eyes as he groans himself into orgasm Steph is more startled than otherwise by the sudden spill of liquid at the back of his tongue. He tries to cough for a moment, but it’s too far back. After a moment, he gets enough control over his body to swallow hard enough to clear his throat of the possible obstruction.

 

There’s another pulse, less than the first, and then the last slick taste of bitter more than any real quantity of liquid, and LeBron is pulling back, sliding himself free of Steph’s mouth. “Bitch.” From over the top of his head, LeBron’s voice surprisingly level given that he’s just now sliding his thumb free of Steph’s mouth. It comes away wet with saliva Steph can’t be bothered clean up. He tips his head up to follow the path of LeBron’s hand as he brings his fingers to his mouth, presses his lips flush against his thumb and sucks it dry. The fingers in his hair loosen but linger, a bracing hold more than a fist, and then LeBron slides his hand from his mouth and there’s no trace of his usual smirk at his lips. “You need to get it.”

 

Steph takes a breath, feels the way it aches in his throat, his inhale made ragged by LeBron’s fingers and  cock. His ribs are tender, too, the bruises rising from the impact of his knee blurring into one all-over hurt under his skin. It should hurt enough to get him to leave, a reminder of LeBron’s temper. But he tips his head back, hard enough that LeBron’s hold on his hair tugs at the edge of pain again.

 

“Yes.” History tells of kings that smiled and kings that conquered. LeBron was the latter.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to add some tags. By the way, they aren't done in this hotel yet. Good thing fancy hotels have thick walls, am I right?
> 
> I can't believe LeBron has some Shark Tank Cleveland thing coming out. XD I am dying to write something in about that eventually.
> 
> #stillchampions
> 
> Please comment if it sucks or if you like it. I almost didn't add anymore cause I thought everyone is dead in off season. Apparently my brain is like nah man.


	4. quatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph and LeBron get wet--in more ways than one.

Steph should probably head back to his room.

 

Any reasonable person would say this is the right thing to do. He already got what he came for from LeBron. He is kind of hungry and a little bit tired, and even if room service is backed up, he can probably take a quick nap. But reason has nothing to do with the exhilaration permeating his body, the complete unwillingness to leave that is holding him where he stands, or rather sits.

 

That would be due completely to LeBron.

 

The other isn’t even looking at him. He’s toeing off his shoes and socks, which is enough to pull curiosity to Steph’s mind if he could think straight. But coherency is harder even than movement, completely beyond Steph’s grasp when he can’t even think to stand up, stunned watching the unconscious grace in LeBron’s movements. He’s missed this, as he’s missed everything about LeBron.

 

He’ missed him. Lately, Steph has felt like every component of the air around him has gone missing and left him slowly choking. And now it’s back, easing a tension in his chest he hadn’t even realized was there until it’s enough to just watch LeBron, enough to listen to the sound of his breathing as he moves to strip his socks off to join his shoes.

 

“You’re a fucking mess,” LeBron asks without looking at him, drawing Steph from his trance. He casually starts unfastening the various buckles and loops that hold his pants in place. He pushes to his feet to stow them off in front of them, and Steph nods, still following the other’s movements like they’re the only thing in the world worth seeing.

 

 “You should shower,” He sounds gruff, the words catching in his throat as he speaks. He shrugs out of his over shirt, stuffs it against the bed without looking up. The line of his t-shirt clings close to his shoulders, revealing to Steph the tension hunching against the curve of the other’s back.

 

“I was going to,” Steph says finally, hesitates because he’s not sure LeBron is prompting him for more. LeBron huffs in reply, dragging his necklace off his head and starts to tug off his rings, looking down at his arms instead of at Steph’s face. “You make it sound like it’s a choice,” LeBron remarks, surprising Steph. Doesn’t he have a choice?

 

He bites his tender, a bit swollen lips in thought, heart thudding in his chest once again. “Well, yeah,” Steph replies, nervousness coming through painfully in his words. LeBron chuckles in response, lifting his shirt until it catches just above the top edge of his jeans. “I’m the one in charge here, remember?” Steph tilts his head at the comment, stares at the line of dark skin visible.

 

 “Oh yeah?” That’s nearly a laugh, the sound turning in Steph’s throat before he closes his mouth and reaches to pull his own shirt off over his head, taking the initiative to undress as he attempts to read LeBron’s mind. Meanwhile, his own begins to run a mile a minute, swirling up fantasies he would never admit to himself that he thinks of right before he falls asleep at night.

 

Steph can see LeBron’s shoulders shift with motion as his skin comes clear to the light, the familiar curve of his back glowing under the illumination, and then LeBron turns his head, looks sideways to meet Steph’s gaze. “You gonna’ argue that,” He pauses a minute, smirking at him. “After what just happened.”

 

Despite being attracted to LeBron, Steph had never understood women’s preoccupation with muscles.  He worked hard for his own—and maybe occasionally checked himself out in the mirror—but for him, muscles primarily served a functional purpose: to play basketball. But with LeBron, it was completely different.

 

He takes a breath, barely able to concentrate now. “No,” Steph says as he quickly scrambles off the ground to stand. LeBron, only a few feet away from turns his body to face Steph, who reaches his hands out to touch, and LeBron surprisingly moves in closer until they stand closer together.

 

Steph’s hands fit on LeBron’s shoulders, observing the defined muscle there, and LeBron’s strong fingers settle against his smaller waist. When Steph leans up to kiss, LeBron unexpectedly tilts his head down to meet him, his mouth soft with no trace of his usual scowl on his lips. He tastes like sweat, clinging to his lips to match the feeling of his skin, but underneath it, he’s himself. The sour bite that tastes more like home than anything else Steph has ever known. Steph’s hands are sliding down his back, collecting the lingering damp against his fingers, and LeBron smiles against his mouth, licks against his tongue to pull the familiar taste of the other to his lips.

 

LeBron pulls back after a moment, his lashes shifting over his eyes and his gaze skimming across Steph’s shorter, sharp cheekbones, sharp shoulders, and pouty red lips. His mouth turns on a smile Steph knows too soft to be conscious. “Are you gonna’ be a bitch?” He whispers in his trademark gruff voice, sliding his hand around Steph’s waist to drag his fingers up the other’s chest. “Pants off,” He commands, glancing up and down the other’s trim frame.

 

“Uh,” Steph stutters, thoughts blurry with heat haze and his tongue slow to move for the lingering taste of LeBron on it. “All right.”

 

LeBron’s smile draws sharp, turns into a grin as his hand slides down. “Good, bitch,” The phrase is soft on his lips, the sound of an endearment and not an insult, and Steph leans back in for LeBron’s mouth as the fingers on the his skin draw down to press at the front of his jeans. Steph shuts his eyes, lets the warmth of LeBron’s lips on his and the weight of fingers against his pants urge the warmth in his blood into heat once more. This is a tense moment between them, so soft, contrasting their previous only moments ago.

 

By the time LeBron draws back and pulls his hands away, Steph is too glazed to remember where they are for a moment. When he blinks himself back into focus, LeBron is moving out of reach, turning away so all Steph can see is the back of his head and the line of his tattooed back as he tugs at his pants.

 

If there’s a flicker of hesitation in LeBron’s movements, it’s gone almost immediately, replaced by the motion of his hands as he pushes his jeans and boxers to his ankles in one smooth action. Steph’s breath catches, the dark elegance of LeBron’s uncovered body as gorgeous as ever. LeBron looks back over his shoulder, a quick flash of dark eyes before he kicks his clothes into the corner and turns back around with deliberate unconcern. He’s surprisingly flushed hard again, the line of his large girth drawing Steph’s gaze without any chance at resistance, and Steph makes a faint whimpering sound and reaches out unthinking for the other’s hips.

 

LeBron moves sideways and it’s with a show of uncaring, stepping towards the bathroom without so much as meeting Steph’s gaze. He doesn’t pause until he’s in the space itself, his fingers reaching up to catch at the curtain; then he glances back, eyelashes shifting suggestion over the smoke in his gaze, and Steph is held still by the invitation in the deep brown of the other’s eyes, by the arrogant confidence in the tilt of his chin.

 

“Don’t make me wait,” LeBron commands, his tone sharpening the question into an order, and Steph starts to take a step in instant obedience before he remembers he’s still wearing his shorts. He has to pause to manage to peel off the sticky shorts, has to look down before he can remember how, and while he’s working at shoving them down when he hears the curtain and the sound of water starting up to wash out the ambient sound of the other’s breathing.

 

Steph doesn’t take very long, when all he has to do is get the weight of pants off his hips, but by the time he’s stepping free, he’s as hard as LeBron was, maybe harder, again, all his breathing coming short and shallow with anticipation. He chucks his shorts near LeBron’s—he’s not going back to his hotel naked- and only then does he stride quickly into the decorative hotel bathroom and reach out to tug the edge of the curtain open.

 

LeBron is standing in the spray of the water, his head tipped back so the shower can splash against his hair and his shut eyes. But he tips his head down and blinks as Steph hesitates, pausing to stare at the damp of the droplets hitting the other’s skin, entranced by the way the water collects at LeBron;s collarbone and skids into a waterfall against his muscular arms. LeBron huffs with impatience, his cheeks starting to atypically color, and then he’s tipping his head back again, reaching up to push the water through his hair. Steph steps forward without thinking, drawn in as inexorably as if by a magnet. He can see LeBron breathing catching in his chest, his cock still hard against his belly, and he doesn’t mean to sigh in appreciation until the sound is off his lips and free into the hot humidity of the air.

 

“Like what you see?” LeBron teases without opening his eyes, but he leans in when Steph brushes his fingertips against the water catching against his hip, the tremor across his stomach speaking to the permission he’s not sure he has. Yet, he takes another half step-in, his skin going wet again from the splash of moisture off LeBron’s body, but he doesn’t think of that at all. Everything in him is falling into humming focus on the slip of the warm skin under his fingers, on the way LeBron’s far hip fits against the palm of his hand when he reaches out.

 

“LeBron,” he says, so soft it’s almost an inadvertent whisper. “I--”

 

The other lowers his chin again, blinks water from his eyes to offer Steph a glare shadowed into promise. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, reaching out one wet hand to close against Steph’s toned arm.

 

He is merely a prince. This is he king. Yet, Steph shakes his head, not ready to accept defeat. Feeling gutsy and a bit bold, he quickly leans up to kiss the water that’s collected against LeBron’s eyebrow. LeBron stiffens under the contact, his breathing stalling for a minute, most than likely surprised by Steph’s bravery. Though it doesn’t last long before LeBron places his hand on Steph’s chest and pushes him away, staring down at him with narrowed eyes.

 

Feeling dejected, Steph wonders, as he always wonders, if LeBron will ever let him get close. LeBron slides his hand down Steph’s back, follows the line of his vertibrae until the stretch becomes too much. Then he pushes at his hip, offering “Turn around” only as belated clarification once Steph has already begun to move. He twists in place in obedience, offers the line of his shoulders and the curve of his back for LeBron’s consideration.

 

The other hums satisfaction as he reaches out to slide his hand in against Steph’s waist. Steph looks like a sculpture, his skin turned porcelain smooth by the sheen of the water running across his back; every line under his skin is thrown into relief by the fall of liquid over his shoulders. He would sculpture-worthy had it not for the tremble of adrenaline Steph always has when the other touches him. LeBron steps in closer, bumps his foot against Steph’s as he lets his hand trace in against the curving line of the other’s hip.

 

Frozen in place, he can hear the breath the other takes, the sound so resonant it’s audible even over the sound of the water. He reaches out, carefully sets his hand flat and bracing against the wall in front of him and keeps the other at his side, fingers stretching anxiously.

 

“Steph,” LeBron says now, breathing the name against his ear and watching the way Steph shudders helplessly under the spray of the shower. The water does nothing at all to rinse away the flush staining his cheeks, his neck, the back of his shoulders, building on the anticipation from flooding his veins with heat that needs no further encouragement. “What do you want?”

 

“What do you think?” Steph fights back, despite sounding like he’s fighting for every syllable, like he’s forgotten how to speak. His eyes are shut, tips his head back his curls his fingers against the wall like he’s trying to drive his hold straight into the tile to hold himself steady.

 

He feels the words against his ear before it registers. “No.” Steph’s shoulders tense, steadying himself in place as LeBron glides his hand sideways across the flat of Steph’s toned stomach, perfected from years of practice and continued training. “I wanna’ hear you say it. You know you’re a whore for it.”

 

LeBron grins against the wet of Steph’s hair, waiting as Steph gathers himself enough to get a word out. “Touch me,” He replies on command, lets the words roll warm and pleased over his tongue. “Please,” He adds for good measure. LeBron laughs, the sound shaky-weak but amused all the same, and he uncharacteristically leans in to lick the water off Steph’s shoulder. Even with his arm braced against the wall, Steph shivers at the touch, shaking until LeBron sighs and using the his hand at his stomach to wrap around his waist to hold him steady.

 

When LeBron pulls him back, Steph goes easily, curving in against LeBron’s chest and bumping in against the other’ length, but LeBron doesn’t pause to do more than hum pleasure at the contact and rock in a little closer. Steph opens his eyes briefly before the spray of the shower causes him to close them, and LeBron skids his other hand down the skinny line of Steph’s spine, simultaneously pressing harder with his hand now on his side, arm keeping Steph still. He uses the same hand on his back to draw down along his bum to the tense heat at his entrance.

 

Even with his arm braced against the wall, Steph shivers at the touch. “Right here?” LeBron chuckles but Steph knows it’s no question begging answer. The splash of the water has claimed dominance over his attention and his thoughts. When LeBron pushes with one finger, threatening friction without enough force to follow through, Steph gasps something wordless and loud, a tremor of response given shape into sound. “Here,” LeBron repeats, then lets his hand bracing Steph’s waist, until he can stretch his little finger out and bump the base of Steph’s flushed cock, a glancing impact that still makes him choke and shake with the suggestion.

 

 “And here.” LeBron tilts his hips in, fits his cock against the edge of Steph’s hip, and Steph gives up some garbled sound, words torn to shreds over the tension in his body until they’re nothing but noise. “You want me to pound your ass,” He growls out, deliberately drawling out the rough edges of the consonants, turning them into something hot enough to cause Steph to shudder. “You want to come like a slut while I’m fucking’ you up against the wall.”

 

He groans, first, incoherently. “Please,” Steph moans, hips working backwards like he’s trying to fuck himself on the other’s fingers, though moving will ruin any chance of coherency but he doesn’t really need to be coherent anyway. “Fuckin’ love it when you beg,” LeBron mumbles against the back of Steph’s neck. He tilts his wrist into an angle, pushes one finger carefully inside him, and Steph makes a shattered sound, a growl dissolving into a moan as the finger presses inside him. “You can’t even wait,” LeBron sounds as if he is panting this time, drawing back to ease forward again, holding Steph still against him to keep him from moving and disrupting the necessarily slow rhythm. “You want it right my dick, right here, don’t you?”

 

“’Bron, yes,” He starts before LeBron turns his hand, pushes in deep enough for Steph to arch his back into an involuntary curve, to tilt his head back further on a startled bark of sound. “Ah.”

 

 

“You should be quiet. I’m not the only one with a key to my room,” LeBron keeps talking, and he doesn’t think that’s true but it hardly matters, not when this is more for him than for anyone else. “What would Jr or Kyrie think if they saw us in here, huh? You think they’d still respect you?” He draws his hand back, and Steph hears him suck against his fingers for a moment for a little more lubrication.

 

The sound makes him growl, raw and desperate and shaking for it, trembling like LeBron’s hold is the only thing keeping him upright. “You pinned up against the wall,” LeBron continues, painting the picture in broad strokes as he reaches back down to stretch Steph open around a pair of fingers, the force enough to jolt a tremor through the other boy and twitch hot through his cock at LeBron’s fingertips.

 

 He ducks in close, kisses wet off Steph’s shoulder, who moans, dips his head in submission to the water and the kiss at once as LeBron’s fingers thrust farther into him. LeBron is opening up to him, gasping a lungful of air gone audible and wet in the humidity as his shoulders shiver with tension, legs quaking with each thrust of the other’s fingers. “It could be a few minutes of ‘em just staring at me fucking you like a bitch in heat.”

 

 A thrust, a twist, and Steph arches again, demonstrates LeBron’s point with a groan that spills up from his throat as liquid as the water around them. LeBron is breathing faster, fighting for enough air from the damp hanging around them, but his hand doesn’t slow, the pace of his movement set by instinct rather than conscious effort.

 

“They could come in, but you want me to fuck you anyway,” LeBron huffs, certain enough to strip any question from his tone as he draws his fingers back and brings his hand to his mouth to lick damp across the calluses on his palm. Steph is gasping, sounds like he’s choking, like he can’t suck enough air from the space around him.

 

All LeBron can see of him is the wet slackness of his mouth, his inhales dropping into unconscious effort as he braces against the wall. LeBron slicks his palm over himself, steps in between Steph’s wide-open stance, and then he has to lean in close, brace his hand on the cool tile between Steph’s and let his hold against the other’s stomach go so he can steady himself instead, brace his fingers against the base of his cock as he looks down to line himself up.

 

“You’re such a hungry little cockslut,” LeBron adds, bumps the head of his cock against Steph so the other boy shudders and moans frantic incoherence. He can feel the ache of anticipation pooling low in his stomach; can see the adrenaline of their previous events shivering in his leg as he lifts his foot off the tile to place it on the edge of the tub, giving LeBron a better angle. He hums appreciation before tipping his hips forward, letting himself slide an inch into the heat of Steph’s body, and Steph groans, long and low and so drawlingly loud he has a flicker of concern that they actually will get caught, that one of his teammates will hear, that the door will open and the excitement of possibility will collapse into the panic of reality. But Steph is shivering, is blurting “Yes” with fire on the word, and LeBron doesn’t consider stopping the steady-slow thrust of his hips as he slides into him.

 

“You feel that?” LeBron whispers in his ear, the words spilling as they catch heat on the water in the air, tipping himself forward to breathe hard off Steph’s skin. “You like it bare, don’t you? So you can feel it when I spray inside you.”

 

He’s moving slow, finding a gentle rhythm to his motion, but Steph is gasping anyway, choking on the water in the air and his leg shaking like he’s coming apart, whimpering something half a groan and half appreciation against the weight of the humidity. LeBron mouths at his shoulder, drags his teeth over the unmarked skin, and Steph trembles with some suggestion of his usual fragility as the other draws back to thrust in again, deeper this time.

 

“Sluts take whatever is given to them,” LeBron mouths against his shoulder, even though Steph’s not listening to him. It’s the tone that matters. Then he reaches out and around, slides his fingers down the trembling taut of Steph’s stomach as slowly as he can bear. He keens as LeBron’s fingers dip down to his hips, touch skimming the base of his cock. Steph quickly tilts his head to look at LeBron at his shoulder, who kisses him again, wordless comfort hot on his lips, and drags his fingers up slow so he can feel the way Steph tenses around him at the touch.

 

His fingers at his groin tighten against the resistance of Steph’s cock, and Steph chokes off a sound, a weird broken noise. LeBron shifts his grip, and Steph can feel the texture of his callused hands against his soft skin. He groans when LeBron slides his thumb in against the head of the his cock, does it again as he tips his hips back to thrust in deep, and Steph can feel his attention failing him. His awareness of the door and the heat and even the wet of the shower fade away as the slow slide of his hand over LeBron’s hand on length and the rhythmic thrust of his cock into the other boy’s his body fall into perfect harmony.

 

Steph starts rocking back as LeBron continues thrusting forward, caught between the two sensations and clearly unable to pick a preference and Steph can’t quite catch his breath for the warm in the air. LeBron lets out a purr of laughter, spilling against the strain in Steph’s shoulders. “Bet you wished I fucked your ass in that coat closet, made you scream with all those people in the other room,” He grunts, punctuates with a thrust that fires electric up his spine and jolts Steph into another moan, this one enough to catch an echo off the tiled walls.

 

His arm is aching from the force of holding himself up, and his body is shaking, trembling as if he’s about to step out onto the court, hot with the adrenaline that turns him into something wild and fearless instead of the timid creature LeBron usually knows. But they’re both Steph: the fearless determination and the shaking nerves, and LeBron has them both right now, framed in the shadow of his shoulders and trembling incoherent whimpers to the tile around them.

 

“I’ll give you what you want. But I’m gonna’ to take what I want too.” LeBron says in a threatening tone, strokes up hard, tightening his fingers with the confidence of conviction, and Steph jerks, wails a broken startled sound and comes so suddenly even he is surprised.

 

Steph starts gasping for air, sucking in liquid and water alike in coughing desperation. His vision goes white, his hearing rings into inconsequence; he thinks he might have stopped breathing, that he may be stalled on air that he’s forgotten what to do with, but it doesn’t matter because his whole body is shaking, is quivering with the sensation surging through him like waves. LeBron is still thrusting into him, his movements falling into a far faster rhythm as he groans something, Steph’s name or a curse or just heat, but he can’t pay enough attention to parse the meaning in his head; he’s falling forward against the shower wall, his arms giving way to place his hands on the tile, arching his back.

 

LeBron’s movement is radiating out into him, filling Steph with electricity too bright and overwhelming to be endured, but when Steph finally manages to gasp a breath it’s LeBron’s name on his lips instead of protest, encouragement as the slide of the other into him draws the expanse of surging pleasure to unbearable heights. LeBron’s fingers had moved to his hips in the midst of it all, tightening to a white-knuckled hold.

 

His breathing comes faster in the distance and then his hips drive forward once more as he groans and starts to come. Steph shudders with it, body trembling like he’s awestruck with each spill of heat from LeBron’s cock inside him, who groans a low note of absolute relief and leans forward to press his forehead against Steph’s shoulders.

 

Eventually, the grip on his head eases, and LeBron draws back to slide out of him in a spill of slick liquid. He pulls back sooner than Steph would like. Steph prefers to linger close, to let his afterglow bleed out and into something closer. But he is shaking himself into dangerous footing, and aside from the risk of someone actually coming into LeBron’s room, he knows it will only put the other off.  So he eases away from LeBron and bites his lip awkwardly, trying to pull away.

 

But after a moment, LeBron’s fingers come back to his throat; settle bruises he’s made from earlier. Hesitantly, Steph turns his head under the contact, presenting his throat as if submitting to a superior being and LeBron presses his lips into the wet skin there, breath ghosting warm against him. Steph shudders, a full-body reaction to the weight of other’s hand at his throat, and LeBron tightens his hold carefully, pressing his grip slowly tighter so he doesn’t catch friction under his fingertips. His mind is still hazy with heat from his orgasm, but he closes his eyes and tries to relax.

 

He can hear LeBron hum, can feel the effort of the movement under his palm; and then his thumb digs in harder, and Steph’s breathing goes still as a tremor of heat that runs through him. “Who,” LeBron breathes, as careful with the syllables on his tongue as he was with the weight of his fingers against Steph’s throat. “Who’s my bitch?”

 

 Steph can feel the lopsided drag of the other’s lips so close to his curve into a smile, can hear the huff of almost-a-laugh he gives. “Me,” Steph answers, obedient even with his voice raw in his abused throat.

 

He knows LeBron is trying to prove a point, knows the hum of approval in the other’s throat is from his answer as much as it is the spill of overwarm delight that comes with thorough sexual satisfaction. But still. “Good boy,” He whispers, and Steph feels some unknot some weight on his chest, and it’s only then that LeBron leans in close enough to press a careful kiss to Steph’s lips. Steph whimpers appreciation, still struggling to put himself back into his own existence and not the thing that LeBron makes of him, the alternate self that sometimes feels truer than reality.

 

He shuts his eyes, lets himself slide back into the reassurance of darkness for a moment where there’s nothing but the gentle skim of LeBron’s fingers, soft press of his lips, and the soothing hum of his voice. He nods.

 

LeBron kisses him once more, a press of lips to his jaw, this time, the contact enough for Steph to feel the tension of a smile at the other’s lips. “Get cleaned up,” He says, words rougher than his touch before pulling away from Steph, who tries to lean back into him awkwardly, opening his eyes and tipping his head to keep the water from blinding him. Glancing at LeBron, he catches the other’s hard gaze, stopping for a moment as Steph tries to almost stop him from leaving the shower. Steph swallows, moving away from him until he’s under the brute force of the shower and away from LeBron.

 

 His throat burns, the memory of pressure near enough to make the movement startling when he can affect it. His voice when he speaks sounds hoarse, too, enough to nearly undo his sincerity when he says, “All right.”

  

He can hear LeBron clear his throat, the vibration of the shower door sliding open, but all he says is “Come out when you’re done,” and all Steph can feel is warmth, despite the cold air of the bathroom coming in through the open door.

 

There’s a soft thud of the glass door shutting, and he glances over when he knows LeBron is out, watching him grab a towel from the holder on the wall, wrapping it around his waist eloquently as if he had just finished a shower by himself not just had sex with his rival. LeBron spares him a glance, a disbelieving stare coupled with a lift of one dark eyebrow. He looks regal, haughty and austere and untouchable, except that there’s tension at the corner of his mouth, the hint of perhaps-a-laugh as he tightens the grip on his towel and walks toward the door.

 

It’s the coughing that brings him back to reality. The pressure at his throat has long been gone, only leaving the ache of bruises that will sit just under the high collar of most of his shirts, and he can breathe again, huge reflexive gasps of air that tear his abused throat and leave him leaning against the shower wall and cough against unfamiliar darkness.

 

Checkmate for the king once again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through preseason!
> 
> Congrats to the US basketball team. As if the other countries had a chance. ;)


	5. cinq

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, ya'll. We're deep into post season right now. I hope you like this edition. I'm not obsessed with it.

Even after a shower, Steph still smells like LeBron, of power and sweat and soft water. No wonder he claims to be a weapon. Even Steph’s body's denying his humanity. Maybe that should worry him more than it does. But Steph’s failed to worry about anything when it comes to LeBron, and it was never his plan to be scared of the other. Snorting to himself in his thoughts, he quietly steps out of the shower and grabs a soft towel off the holder on the wall, wrapping it around his waist.

 

He never knows whether to be happy or sad after they have sex. It certainly improves his day, to have the pleasure that comes along with consensual intercourse, but he has to stop himself from emotionally investing in someone who considers him to be nothing but a quick fuck.

 

When Steph walks through the door to the other room, he finds LeBron lounging casually on the appropriately named king size bed and scrolling through his phone, towel still wrapped around his waist and shirtless. Though it is certainly a sight to behold, he feels the bitterness and resentment that usually hits him after they have sex creeping up on him.

 

“So,” Steph says after a moment, slow, careful, with nothing but utter, resonant calm in his throat despite his irritation. “What’s up?” There’s nothing else he could think of saying, well, nothing that wouldn’t come dripping with clear annoyance. At least he never has to make a hard decision with LeBron after sex, care or don’t-care, hurt or self-defense. It’s always made for him by the time he sees the danger; LeBron always leaves. But now, in this situation, Steph doesn’t know what’s coming next.

 

 “You tell me,” LeBron answers, not looking away from his phone, and it lights the fire in Steph’s veins to be ignored. “What’s up?” He mocks in a facetious tone, annoying.

 

“I should leave,” Steph retorts quickly. The words come out quick with much haste, cold as the gaze lingering at LeBron’s hands, shoulder, and lips. “You usually leave.”

 

This finally makes LeBron put his phone down on the bed and lean up until he is resting on his elbows, meeting Steph’s gaze with narrowed eyes. “Sit down,” He orders him, retreating back to the demanding LeBron that always makes Steph’s spine tingle with heat wholly separate from his anticipation of the myriad of things the other might do to him, what he did to him earlier.

 

Rolling his eyes, Steph walks toward him with a frown and crosses his arms over his chest, towel still held up by the way he tucked it around his waist. Though his expression remains exasperated, he still sits down next to the other on the bed, only a mere foot apart.

 

There is a hand at his head, the slip of nimble fingers across the top of Steph’s hair, and then the faint spicy smell of LeBron’s shampoo as the other leans closer until his face comes close to his neck. It’s remarkably pleasant in the dark, no doubt reaching almost midnight now, with the warm breath against his skin and the gentle press of LeBron’s fingers against his scalp, rubbing his hair and skin at once. When Steph looks down at the other, surprised by the tender touch, LeBron grins up at him, the expression tugging sharp at his lips.

 

Honestly, Steph should have known better than to trust him.  He always loses track of time when LeBron has his hands on him, as soon as he touches him, the ticking clock seems to stutter in its movements. He whispers at the sudden drag of LeBron’s lips on his skin, pants softly when LeBron’s tongue trails across his neck. And when he hears, “You like this, bitch?” Steph makes the mistake of answering, “Yes” in a hushed voice.

 

 LeBron pulls away unexpectantly, leaning back and away so suddenly he’s left chilled with his absence. Steph starts to push himself up and get away in a panic. But he doesn’t’ have a choice, as it turns out, because LeBron closes hand on his hip, pulls off his towel with a quick agile tug, and pushes him over onto his stomach. Before Steph can protest, LeBron roughly drags him up to lean over the bedsheets on his hands and knees above him. And then his knees are between Steph’s calves and his hands are on his thighs and tongue dragging hot and wet over sensitive skin along his back until Steph cries out loudly. “L-LeBron,” He whines, reaching up to grip the pillow near his head, pulling it to his chest. “I ain’t sixteen, man. Refractory period and shit, come on.” Though the tone is petulant, the sincerity in his voice is an attempt to get through to the man.

 

Of course, it was a mistake to point out something is impossible. LeBron is a dedicated man. Steph knew this from the start, knew it was true the moment LeBron came back to Cleveland and won the championship he had set out to in the first place. Whatever LeBron sets his mind to doing, he does, regardless of what obstacles there may be in the way of his success.

 

“I can’t,” He argues against the sheets under him, gasping for air that has gone hot even as he draws it to ease the aching tension in his lungs. “LeBron, I--” and his voice fractures, cracking straight down the middle as the other’s hands on his hips slide down to his thighs.

The friction alone is bad enough, just the suggestion of LeBron’s tongue against his hole was enough to speed his breathing and tense his shoulders. But then LeBron had dug his fingers into Steph’s legs, and pressed his mouth close to Steph’s skin. When he started working his tongue down his arse until he stopped at his hole, all Steph was left to do was moan helplessly as tears threatened at the edge of his eyes.

 

His whole existence is melting down around him, like his very sense of self is coming undone as the slick pressure of LeBron’s tongue thrusts into him. His speech give way to a moan, a drawn-out, shuddering wail of heat as his hands fist on the sheets, but even when he gets enough traction to push himself backwards, he hits that wall of LeBron’s strong hands against him holding him precisely where the other wants him. He whines again, whimpering helpless protest to the resistance, but when he says “LeBron” it comes out sounding more like a moan than a protest. He can’t even be sure in himself which one he intended.

 

His cock is aching in time with the beat of his heart, can’t even believe he is hard again. There’s no way it will lead to an orgasm; he’s sure of it. Yet, he can feel the tremor purring under his skin with every movement of LeBron’s mouth and every low hum of sound in the other’s throat. If he tips his chin down, he can see how hard he is; can see the heavy flush of arousal coloring his cock nearly to purple at the head. He’s aching for want of contact despite what his head thinks.

 

 LeBron’s hold at his thighs is unbreakable, his fingers spread wide against the outside of Steph’s legs and his thumbs pressing bruise-hard against the softer inside line, and Steph can’t even try and get enough motion to rock himself down and flat against the bed in attempt to see if he can even orgasm.

 

Besides, moving would require pulling away from LeBron’s mouth, and despite the friction he considers strained and painful with not-enough lube, Steph can feel the ache along his spine like an addiction, can’t muster the mental fortitude to even consider giving up the sensation. Every thrust of LeBron;s tongue surges heat up his spine and trembles heavy into his blood, and it might not be enough but it feels good, it feels so good, and some dizzy, heat-blurred part of Steph’s mind never wants him to stop.

 

Luckily for him, LeBron doesn’t seem inclined to. He knows coming against must be impossible for him too; he’s older than him after all. He hasn’t so much as shifted take off his towel or to give himself something to rock against for some minimal relief as he holds Steph right at the edge of satisfaction. Steph is sure he would at least tried if he was in his position, would have at least given up the weight of one hand to remove his towel and close a stroking hand around the heat of his cock.

 

The idea alone makes him shudder, brings his hips rocking forward to thrust helplessly against the unresisting air because he can’t help himself at this point, but LeBron keeps his hold on his thighs and no sooner has his forward motion his steady hold , gentle and as unbreakable as steel. LeBron pushes in farther, his tongue sliding deep into Steph’s body, and he moans again, spine curving in involuntary reaction to the friction of LeBron licking into him.

 

His refectory period long since forgotten to the lustful haze in Steph’s thoughts; all he can parse now is the general weight of the movement, the wet warmth of LeBron’s tongue stretching him open deeper than he thought possible and twitching another surge of heat into his already-aching cock. His vision is blurring, his fingers dragging across the soft of the sheets under him, and then LeBron shifts and pushes into him with more force than thought possible. Everything in his body jerks to tension, his throat closing up on a wail of heat as friction flickers like electricity all over his body.

 

“Oh fuck,” He groans, legs flexing in desperation that lacks a goal; he can’t decide if he wants to buck forward to gain friction for his cock or push backwards to urge LeBron to greater movement, to greater depth, to greater pressure against the ache of desire so hot inside him. He knows now he wants the force of fingers, wants the angle of LeBron’s cock sliding into him again, despite his inner mind screaming at him that it may lead to nothing.

 

Steph wishes LeBron would lift a hand, would reach between his canted-open legs and drag his fingers against his cock, maybe just press the curve of his palm. But LeBron’s hands aren’t moving; if anything his hold is going tighter as if he thinks Steph might try to pull forward and break free as the tremors of desperate need in him start to quiver throughout his entire body. Steph isn’t trying to move away, but it doesn’t matter anyway. LeBron’s hands are holding his legs unmoving even as the other redoubles his already superhuman efforts.  

 

He’s all Steph can feel and even the weight of his grip on his thighs is fading out to the slick thrust of the other’s tongue into him. Steph starts gasping for breath and shaking with want, feels the sparks along his spine accumulating into something so familiar he can’t mistake it for anything but impending orgasm. It’s just not possible.

 

“LeBron,” He whines, feeling his body straining, feeling his hold bracing him in place anyway, “Oh, god, fuck, I--” He’s shaking, his entire body is quivering as convulsively as if LeBron’s touch is an electrical current running through him, but his breathing is hitching, his shoulders are tensing, he’s going to pass out, not come. He starts to panic, clinging to consciousness as desperately as he’s clinging to the sheets under him.

 

He’s close, he’s close, he’s so close; and then LeBron lifts a hand, finally, and pushes his index finger right into his hole, next to his tongue. And Steph has a heartbeat of time to see the wave coming for him, to breathe “LeBron” like a prayer for salvation before every muscle in his body seizes into the most unbearably intense orgasm he’s ever experienced. He can’t even believe he’s coming, loses track of the heat pulsing through his cock as much as loses the sensation of LeBron’s tongue working inside him. There’s only the waves of pleasure, only the heat rushing through him in long, quivering jolts and pulling sound he doesn’t hear out of his throat.

 

He doesn’t know if he’s crying out, if his voice is cracking high and piercing on the rush of heat in him, if it’s LeBron’s name he’s spilling past his lips on the flood of relief. All he can hold in himself is the pleasure, as if his existence itself is ebbing and flowing with each cresting wave of sensation. His spine arches through a last jolt of friction as the other’s tongue slides out of him to leave him achy and trembling in the aftershocks of his overwhelming orgasm.

 

LeBron pulls away eventually and chuckles behind him lowly, but Steph has only managed to realign his attention to the weight of LeBron’s hold on his thighs. When LeBron moves behind him, he hears him say, “You a teenager again?” and shudders in reaction to the words. He’s not thinking about the situation, wonders if LeBron will be able gain any satisfaction of his own, questions how long his refectory period is considering his age. And it’s all Steph can do to breathe against the sheets, to uncurl his hands from the desperate hold he has against the blankets under him.

 

“Wonder if your sixteen-year old self would still be begging for my dick.” LeBron adds, and Steph’s heart is still pounding against his chest, pulse fluttering so hard in his throat he’s sure it must be visible, but as LeBron’s touch draws away from his legs and leaves him free he doesn’t think to move, doesn’t think to do anything but blink very slowly as he watches the haze of his vision narrow and expand with each shift of his lashes.

 

There’s sound behind him, a minor tremor through the bed as LeBron shifts his weight over the mattress, but still, Steph doesn’t so much as flicker until there’s a touch at his hip, until there’s the warmth of LeBron’s palm catching and bracing against his skin. “Wait,” He gasps, his voice catching on the adrenaline of heat as much as that of surprise at the contact. “LeBron, what about your--”

 

“Shut up,” LeBron growls, his fingers tightening against Steph’s hip like he’s bracing himself in place. Steph has a moment to piece together the implications of that, to reach for the logic going by too fast for his pleasure-fogged brain to parse; and then LeBron presses against him.

 

There’s slick heat dragging against Steph’s abused entrance again, and his eyes come open wide, his throat straining over “W-wait” just as LeBron sighs himself into a low rumble of anticipation.  “Good boys don’t talk back to their elders.” LeBron’s cock is slippery against his skin, as hot to the touch as his tongue was and offering far more resistance due to his size even with this glancing contact, and Steph’s whole body tenses for a moment, shuddering through a much-delayed aftershock of his orgasm at the idea of having the other back inside him so soon.

 

It’s too much, it’s too soon, his legs are trembling just with the idea, but LeBron doesn’t have to pull him back to rock his weight back, doesn’t have to ask before Steph is closing his hands on the sheets under him once again to brace for the other’s forward motion. “Good boy,” LeBron rumbles over him, the praise ringing in his ears. He sounds appreciative, sounds pleased and satisfied before he’s even moved, and Steph can’t help but quiver in response, his body reacting to his voice.

 

“LeBron,” Steph pants back, and his arms flex, his shoulders working so he can tilt himself backwards, can push futilely against the grip of the hand at his hip. “Please-” He’s trying to get him to stop, reconsider, but it seems futile.

 

“You fucking love it, you whore,” LeBron growls, and that’s all the warning he gives before he’s rocking his hips forward and letting the slick heat of his cock stretch Steph open. Steph chest flexes, his lungs emptying into the pillow at LeBron’s motion, but LeBron keeps moving forward and Steph is left without the air to whimper as the other’s movement drags hard across oversensitive nerve endings.

 

Steph’s body jerks, his cock unbelievably twitching in a frantic attempt at heat again, and LeBron’s other hand closes at his far hip to brace him in place, to hold Steph up over his knees even as the tremors of too-much stimulation leave him helpless and pliant to the other’s hold, pulls him back and onto the his cock. Steph can imagine the juxtaposition in his head: large and in-charge LeBron James naked on a hotel bed, his expression steady and focused as his moves, and his own self slumped forward over the support of his knees, his skin shining with sweat and his come drying sticky on the sheets under him.

Somehow, this idea makes his cock twitch hotter, makes him sob a moan as his body shakes through another flush of unsolicited arousal, and then LeBron is leaning close against him and reaching to drag his fingers up over Steph’s over-sensitive cock. All of Steph’s awareness of the way they must look, of the way he must look to LeBron’s steady consideration, undoes itself into a helpless moan as the hand closes around him.

 

“Can’t get enough,” LeBron grunts in an all-knowing tone, but the stimulation is too much, despite LeBron’s words. It was too much before, with just LeBron’s cock sliding over nerve endings made achingly sensitive with the extended effort of the other’s tongue; but this is something else again. This is LeBron’s callused grip dragging up over Steph’s abused, sore cock, and this is Steph shouting against the sheets, not even caring that his voice is breaking high and wailing, that his moans are echoing off the walls and are undeniably audible in the adjacent hotel rooms.

 

The sensation is excessive, is tearing through him like an excess of electricity, but the heat is building low in his stomach again and he doesn’t want LeBron to stop, even when the other’s fingers slide over the head of his cock and he sobs against the sheets, even when the heat that spills a few drops of precome over LeBron’s fingers is trembling to the verge of cramps in his thighs. LeBron must feel it too because he leans down to press his lips against the side of Steph’s bruised neck and whispers, “Milking you fuckin’ dry.”

 

Steph can’t imagine recovering from this, can’t figure out how he’s still remembering to breathe even now, but LeBron is still thrusting into him and is still dragging up over him. He starts panting at the back of his neck with what he distantly recognizes as the sudden and rare loss of composure that only ever comes at moments like these.

 

He tips forward and rocks his hips with each drive of LeBron into him, but LeBron’s hand is moving faster. He doesn’t care as he slides forward to lie flat against the bed, doesn’t care about the way the angle strains the inside of his shaking thighs. His toes are curling against the bed, his fingers are fisting at the sheets, and the king is completely on top of him now, the weight of the other’s body holding him still against the force of movement into him.

 

His vision is blurring, breathing is catching into gasping inhales around each of the moans he’s offering for every forward thrust of LeBron’s cock, and when LeBron twists his wrist and jerks hard over him his shoulders tense, his head tips back so hard he can feel the strain in his neck. His lashes flutter, his mouth opens and then spasms, his entire body clenching suddenly tight as his cock jerks in LeBron’s hold and his chest tenses against a drawn-out wail of sound in his throat.

                                                                                                                                                                    

The first convulsion doesn’t even feel like pleasure at first, barely feels like relief. But LeBron groans behind him, his voice dropping to a resonance that Steph has never heard from him before. When he takes a thrust forward, LeBron’s rhythm breaks, his composure giving way as his cock spills a flood of heat into Steph. Steph moans against the sensation, feels his body tense in reaction more psychological than physical, this time, and over him LeBron huffs a low note and rocks in harder, as if he can get any deeper than he already is.

 

He’s too heavy, the weight of his body and the stretch of his cock both more than Steph’s trembling body can bear, but he doesn’t try to move away, and doesn’t protest, just lies where he is and lets the ripples of heat run their course through his body and leave him heavy and boneless against the sheets. Steph doesn’t move for what feels like a very long while. He can feel himself going lightheaded, from the heat or the pressure or just absolute exhaustion, but he can’t figure out if he should move, if he should bother trying to extricate himself from the danger of actually passing out with LeBron on top of him.

 

He’s still thinking through the problem with a hazy logic that promises to make the decision for him if it continues on as slowly as it started when LeBron finally shifts; just enough to ease his hold off of Steph’s hip and draw his hand up instead. His fingers reach up to his neck, draw the weight of his head, and Steph stirs at the contact, the weight of the other’s touch at his skin enough to pull his eyes open and force his vision back to a modicum of focus.

 

It’s a bad angle to see from, even when he tries -- his head is canted to the side and LeBron is leaning over his shoulder so it’s hard to see anything but the set of his mouth and the line of his jaw -- but it doesn’t matter anyway, because LeBron is leaning in to press his lips against Steph’s forehead. It’s chaste and way too sweet for them.

 

Steph huffs a laugh, his mouth curving into a smile without any effort, and he keeps his eyes shut and lies still while LeBron fits kisses against the salt-sweat damp of his forehead and over the angle of his cheek. By the time LeBron has worked his way down to the corner of Steph’s mouth, Steph has lost any chance he may have had at holding back the curve at his lips, even when LeBron presses a kiss to the edge of his smile. LeBron doesn’t protest, doesn’t draw away; he just waits, his breathing falling warm over Steph’s skin, and as soon as Steph’s laughter stops, he pulls away to look down at him.

 

The light is behind his head, casting his face in shadow and half-blinding Steph, but for just a moment he thinks there might be a flicker of a smile against his mouth, a momentary softness in his eyes. “Good boy,” he says. He sounds heartfelt, more sincere than Steph has ever heard him. Then he turns, and whatever softness was there is hidden by the line of his jaw from Steph’s view.

 

There’s a pull over too-sensitive nerve endings, sharp enough to make Steph flinch and lean forward again to put his face in the pillow, and LeBron slides free, though he keeps his hand on the his hip. “Sleep here. Don’t want people to see you leavin’ my room.” He doesn’t sound hesitant. LeBron still sounds calm, level, steady the way he always sounds steady during this.

 

LeBron’s the one to pull away crawl over him quickly and a slide off and gets to his feet beside the bed, leaving Steph sprawled sticky and pleasure-hazed on the bed, still shivering with the last vibrations of satisfaction under his skin. He has to let his lingering hold on the other’s cock go in a rush. Steph heaves a sigh, nods his head. “All right,” He agrees, twisting sideways on the bed so he’s on his back instead of sprawled on his stomach.  Watching LeBron in the corner of his eye, he sees the older man grab he towel from the floor where it had escaped during the commotion and clean himself off. He tries not to look too long and glances over at the tissues on the bedside table, looking for some way to clean himself off.

 

Reaching over, he grabs a handful and tries to wipe off the dried cum from his stomach as well as the bed, feeling embarrassed and not sure what the protocol is here. Steph has not slept in a bed with someone else in a long time. It doesn’t seem like a big deal in theory; he’s had LeBron with his dick in his ass, after all, having him in his bed seems like it’s hardly a step up in intimacy. But as the other draws closer after finishing cleaning himself off, Steph feels his anxiety sky rocket as he throws away the used Kleenex and lies down on the bed on his side, biting his lip.

 

“Are you gonna’ be a bitch about this?” LeBron asks him, his voice somewhat sincere but not wholly absent of an edge of annoyance. He’s not sure what he is talking about until the other walks closer to the bed until his knees his side. Oh, sleeping in the same be, Steph realizes and shakes his head. It’s a simple answer, easier than trying to find words for the whole-body pleasure that is still jolting up his spine at odd intervals.

 

“Sorry,” He manages, the words grating in his throat and foreign on his tongue. He can feel himself starting to blush, self-consciousness as quick to return as his voice. “About the bed.” His eyes cast down to the stained sheets as he leans up to hold himself up on his elbow, trying to move over to give the other room. LeBron looks down to the same spot before placing his knee down onto the bed as the mattress to dip down and shifts his body around until he is sitting slightly up on the bed with his back pressed against the headboard. He’s sitting only a foot or so away from Steph, whose body fills with hot heat with boundless anxiety.

 

“I’ve slept in worse,” LeBron says as if reminding him, his hand sliding out throat to cradle the edge of his jaw, his thumb seeking out traction against the other’s cheek. It relaxes Steph’s nerves, yet in another way, only intensifies his fear of this pressure in his chest when he’s around LeBron being a real thing. “Just shut up and be a good bitch.” It has the taste of a command. He ducks in close, presses his lips just against Steph’s hairline and lets the warmth of the contact linger.

 

Steph shuts his eyes, lets himself slide back into the reassurance of darkness for a moment, where there’s nothing but the gentle skim of LeBron’s fingers and the soothing hum of his voice. He nods again. LeBron looks at him for a moment before turning away and sliding down the bed, maneuvering himself on his side until the long line of his back faces Steph. Turning on his side as well, Steph reflects on his decision to stay in LeBron’s bed, knows he will regret it when he wakes up in a few hours. But right now, he stares at LeBron where he can’t see him like he’s his only source of all comfort in the world, moves closer until he could reach out and touch if he wanted. But Steph can’t find it in him to do anything but smile as LeBron’s breathing drops immediately into the slow comfort of sleep next to him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if the age play was too much. I kind of like it, but I'm not sure if ya'll were into it. <3


	6. sechs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“If you’re not writing me a check, I better get going,” Steph attempts in jest, laughing awkwardly to try and break away. He’s not sure he can do much else in response, can’t seem to do anything but tighten his fingers into convulsive fists when LeBron licks across his neck.] LeBron and Steph wake up the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys. My health is still shit. I basically had a doctor leave me, and I have to get a new one in Feb. I hope you all are well. I appreciated all the comments more than you now. I had to watch my damn Indians lose the World Series, and I wanna die. But now it's basketball season, and here's another chapter.

Steph manages to ignore the rising sun – and the inevitable waking – for hours.

 

He could sleep straight through into the afternoon, pretend this never happened, like the future hall-o-famer wasn’t lying in bed next to him. But LeBron left the blinds open last night, and when the sun comes up high in the sky this morning, the illumination angles through the screen shine directly onto Steph’s face.

 

He can only ignore it for so long before the light starts to creep under his eyelids, forcing its way into his dreams. He groans, shifts his weight, and forces his eyes open so he can blink at the blur of light past the window. It’s then that he notices a long, tattooed arm resting across his bare chest, reminding him of his current state of affairs.

 

LeBron doesn’t move at all when Steph slides carefully out from under him and gets to his knees to pull the window blinds shut. But the window blinds bang together as Steph pulls, and his grimace of preemptive apology doesn’t do anything to offset the wordless mumble from the other man. He lets the blinds down quickly, but LeBron is still moving to sit up before Steph can say anything, rubbing the back of his head and yawning.

 

“You woke me up.” LeBron’s voice has similar gravel undertones it takes on when they’re about to have sex, but this one tells him LeBron’s annoyed, even though Steph can’t actually see his expression clearly with his back to him. “What time is it?” He adds, and this time Steph can hear a yawn.

 

“Too early.” Steph mumbles as a reply, feeling anxious and unsure how he should be responding in this predicament. Still with the blanket wrapped around his naked body, feeling embarrassed, he grabs a hold of it and gently sits back down onto the bed.

 

Before he can add anything else, LeBron quickly pulls Steph back toward him, or tries to. In fact, all he manages to do is get an arm around the other man’s shoulders and scoot closer, mostly due to Steph’s grip on the edge of the mattress to keep himself upright. “I didn’t say I was done sleepin’.” LeBron mumbles annoyed; the sound so close to his ear, Steph can hear the tiredness in his voice.

 

 With this reaction from LeBron, some of Steph’s apprehension dissolves, but not enough for him to do anything other than shrug awkwardly and hang his head, trying not to relax too much in LeBron’s grip. He still tries to remain on edge enough to prepare for anything else, as he does on the court.

 

“It’s getting late,” Steph says suddenly, clearing his throat before trying to move out of LeBron’s grasp and distance himself from the other man, metaphorically and physically, and he tries to reach for his water on the table beside the bed, attempting to look uninterested.

 

Unexpectedly, LeBron replies, “I think you mean early,” and tightens his grip around Steph’s shoulders, making it hard for him to reach for his glass. Ignoring LeBron’s attempt at humor, he leans forward more to grab the water, but LeBron reaches out past him and grabs it for him, moving closer until Steph can feel the warmth of the other’s body spilling over into his own.

 

Trying to move out of his way, Steph pulls his hand back from the table and waits for the other to hand him the water, carefully wrapping his arm around Steph’s torso but avoiding touching him. “Thanks,” Steph mumbles quietly, looking away from him, trying not to notice the way his heart picks up as his fingers softly brush LeBron’s, grabbing the cup from his hand.

 

His eyes meet the floor, and he tips the water back to take a drink, trying to think of something to say as LeBron pulls his other arm back away from his body. As he finishes the drink and reaches over to set it back down, LeBron beats him to it, taking it from his hand again and setting it down, prudently not touching his hand this time.

 

“I thought you were leavin’,” LeBron points out, and Steph almost jumps at the sound of his voice, forgetting what it sounded like at full volume. When he turns his head sideways to look at him, LeBron’s fingers from his free hand come up to gently touch his hair, pulling the small tangles of sleep into further disarray.

 

Before Steph can jerk away, it’s LeBron that scoots himself closer and presses his naked chest up against Steph’s back, skin on skin, lips close to his ear, breath puffing hot against his cheek. “Or can’t you get enough of me?” He can feel LeBron’s laugh purr through his chest, vibrate comfortably out through his skin and into Steph’s body from their contact.  He feels the air shift in that moment, and Steph sucks in extra air, holding his breath, waiting for his next dictum. “Come on, you already got your ass plowed twice last night.”

 

Gritting his teeth, Steph quickly tries to pull away in irritation, but LeBron reaches out in expectation and grabs his elbow roughly, holding him still. “Don’t be like that, bitch,” LeBron whispers in his ear, almost as if talking to a small child but the language says otherwise. “You expectin’ a check or something sittin’ on the damn bedside table?”

 

Steph is fairly certain this is supposed to get a rise out of him. Clearly, both of them have more than enough money, but it still makes Steph furious, as if he wasn’t already. Yet, in a way, he should expect this from LeBron, particularly when he’s in this mood. Steph wonders if LeBron is ever calm for long, as he was five seconds ago, because the pattern says otherwise. It seems a switch goes off in his brain when Steph reminds him of reality, talks about the game, teammates, family, or apparently leaving the hotel room. Steph knows what it’s like to not want to face reality though and has a hard time faulting him for it.

 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m waitin’,” Steph manages to snap back, trying to sound aloof and uninterested, but the tenseness in his elbow and fisted hand gives him away. LeBron’s fingers pull gently at his hair, smoothing it back down into what at least feels orderly. “I ain’t writing your ass a check,” LeBron says. There’s a bit of anger there this time, almost distressing to Steph, if it weren’t laid over the rumble of a repressed laugh.

 

When he finally relaxes his hand and elbow, LeBron must feel it because he lets go and leans forward to press his mouth against the bare skin of Steph’s sweat-soaked neck. He can feel the other man’s heart beating against his chest, and though he sounds and looks calm, LeBron’s heart is rapid.

 

When Steph shuts his eyes momentarily, he can feel LeBron kiss and lick gently at his neck, blocks out the distraction of vision and the voice in his head telling him to leave, get out now. It’s too much in such a short time – too much LeBron. He won’t see him for a while, not until next year.

 

“If you’re not writing me a check, I better get going,” Steph attempts in jest, laughing awkwardly to try and break away. He’s not sure he can do much else in response, can’t seem to do anything but tighten his fingers into convulsive fists when LeBron licks across his neck, nips at the edge of his jaw, and sighs satisfaction.

 

But there’s finger dragging over his scalp, pressing against the back of his head to pull him in closer, and the mouth on his neck presses kisses where his hair stops. “Shut up.” LeBron whispers, and Step’s not moving, yet. He’s still sitting upright, but his breathing is coming slightly faster, back arching in a little to meet the other’s touch, and he hates himself for it.

 

“It’s the middle of the day, and people are probably lookin’ for us.” Steph’s words are a protest but the arch in his body is encouraging. He rocks his hips forward, a single smooth motion like maybe he’s just shifting his weight. But LeBron probably knows him well enough by now to know what he should listen to, the touch rather than the language that ought to guide him.

 

LeBron reaches out to grab his arm again, this time using force to turn Steph’s body completely to face him. Just in time, Steph adjusts his sitting position so his legs are under him, and he reaches out with his free arm to steady himself on LeBron’s shoulder.  It makes Steph gasp, arch his back involuntarily, and when he gets his vision back in focus, the older man is leaning forward again, using the grip on Steph’s arm to pull him closer until they’re chest to chest, his whole body pressed in flush to LeBron’s for a moment.

 

 Then a hand on his arm tightens around the slimmest part of Steph’s waist, and he feels his face flush fervently from being so close to LeBron in broad daylight. He has to shut his eyes to keep calm and tilt his head to the side, trying to block out all his thoughts and sounds, such as his heart hammering in his chest.

 

LeBron returns to licking at Steph’s neck and pulls back slightly to move down to Steph’s chest, kissing at the soft skin there. Steph tries to accommodate and leans a little farther back, lowers himself until his back presses against one of the pillows and moves his legs out from under himself to shorten his height. LeBron hums coherent approval, reaching out to settle his fingers against the blanket lying around Steph’s hips.

 

“You couldn’t overpower me an’ leave even if you wanted to,” LeBron stresses as he moves down past Steph’s ribcage, sliding lower across his skin, licking all the way down to the trembling tension across Steph’s waist until his mouth brushes his stomach. Steph is embarrassingly hard; any sort of equivocation would be impossible even if LeBron weren’t on level with the tension against the sheets, and he can feel himself flushing red with self-consciousness.

 

But LeBron doesn’t look up, doesn’t pause to revel in Steph’s discomfort as the other half-expects him to, and there’s some suggestion of impatience there, some startling implication Steph starts to form into clarity in his mind. “I’m still faster,” Steph points out. He intends it to sound haughty, but he’s never been very good at that particular tone. It just comes out slightly defensive instead.

 

It makes LeBron laugh anyway, which Steph considers a win, even if it’s at him, and he smiles at the sound before dropping his down to the mattress entirely, leaning his upper back on the pillow behind him. At this angle, LeBron can relax into his chest, which he does, and reaches up to drag the fingers of his free hand along the Steph’s neck before he pulls the sheets down an inch off his hips.

 

The fingers at his hair neck slide down as LeBron lowers himself down onto the bed, looming over Steph omnisciently. The tongue at his stomach makes Steph shiver; curl his spine up to push in against the other man’s touch, and he has to look up and away, stares at the white neutrality of the ceiling to collect himself.

 

LeBron’s hand at his waist slides down to press into his hip steady, weighted as much with confidence as his actual physical presence. It feels like reassurance, together with some slight affection, and it draws a sigh of satisfaction from Steph even before LeBron adjusts his fingers at his neck to slide gently across his Steph’s clavicle.

 

LeBron is still tracing patterns with his tongue across Steph’s stomach when he feels a slight tickle and moves. Though LeBron just huffs a laugh and deliberately drags his tongue across Steph’s stomach so he can continue his slow slide down over his body. When LeBron laughs, Steph can feel the vibration shake through the skin from above, and he tries not to move again and ruin the moment.

 

“Are you doing that on purpose, man?” Steph blurts out before he can stop himself, looking back down at him. One hand pulls up, tugs at his hair quickly so his scalp tingles warm with the sensation. “ I told you to be quiet.” LeBron replies curtly, stopping his licking momentarily before sliding down to Steph’s hips.

 

LeBron pauses to push the sheets entirely aside, down his thighs to his knees, and Steph brings one leg up so he can kick the fabric off entirely, heart racing with anticipation. When LeBron shifts back up, he fits in between the other man’s legs, changing his angle from casual to deliberate even before he has shifted his mouth down the last distance. “I don’t always gotta’ talk.”

 

“You could at least look at me then,” Steph tries to stop himself, but it comes out anyways. He’d noticed it from the moment things had gotten heated. LeBron hadn’t really looked him in the eyes since. LeBron glances up finally and pushes up on an elbow, trails his fingers in against Steph’s face so he can press a thumb against the other man’s cheekbone.

 

His eyes are heavily lidded, and his pupils are dilated, clearly showing interest. But his smile has faded from the laughter. “Don’t need to,” LeBron declares, almost flippantly, shutting his eyes to prove his point. He feels his way sideways over Steph’s hip, follows the line of bone and muscle across until his fingers brush against the his hardening length. “Ain’t I got a track record with you by now?” LeBron laughs, this time, sounding so low and warm and pleased.

 

“Maybe you’re not doin’ it right,” It comes out snappish, taut with anticipation and want and too-long waiting pulled into the aching desire for the gratification Steph can see coming for him, but LeBron doesn’t rise to the bait.

 

He huffs, opens his eyes and turns his chin up so he can look at Steph with narrow eyes. But there’s still a small smile on his face, his expression warm for all that it’s tight with amusement. He looks wholly composed, calm and more than half-expectant.

 

Steph’s head is spinning like it does when he forgets to eat dinner and stands up too fast, but it doesn’t clear this time. He’s clutching at the sheets, trying not to look panicked with LeBron’s eyes on him, and he has to admit that the other’s hold on his hip is the only thing keeping Steph grounded. They had done a lot since their first time, but LeBron had never once come close to giving Steph a blowjob which is exactly where he finds them headed at this moment.

 

And  he’s proven right when LeBron pushes up on his elbow, pulls his hand back from Steph’s face, and tips his head back down toward his groin. LeBron keeps his gaze focused on Steph’s face as he leans in to brush his parted lips just over the other man’s length.

 

The groan that pulls from Steph comes from the lowest point of his body. LeBron’s lips open, slide down over his length, and it has him trembling into incoherency, losing all the strength and confidence in his body, causing an irresistible tremor of sensation in his blood. He doesn’t realize for a moment that LeBron is humming against him; the sound hits his own shaking, blurs into a single thrumming moment of rising pleasure, and Steph quickly reaches out compulsorily, pushing desperately at LeBron’s hair. He can’t see; he’s shut his eyes, or he’s tipped his head back, or both, but vision isn’t important anyway.

 

But this surprising, arousing event doesn’t last long because LeBron is pulling back already, and the look on his face sends chills the air around them. “Stop it.” It sounds like an order, but it fires responsive tension all through Steph’s skin as the fingers wrapped around his hip slide down onto his cock, tightening around him rather than stroking sensation over his skin. And Steph doesn’t know whether to be insulted or frustrated by the stalled pleasure in his blood, but he opens his eyes and glances back down at him with wide eyes.

 

“Don’t pull my hair, bitch,” LeBron orders, so convincing Steph can feel an automatic apology forming on his lips before he can close his mouth sharply on the words. He lets go of LeBron’s head and lets his fingers tighten into fists in the rumpled sheets under him, and the LeBron’s mouth is against him again. Steph can feel his tongue and the catch of his lips as he moves.

 

There are jolts of electricity running up Steph’s spine, shivering patterns into his breathing, and LeBron is back to moving, his mouth or his tongue or both, Steph’s not sure and doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t stop. He can just remember the feel of rationality, enough to know he’s lost it now, but he doesn’t know why he should care, can feel his awareness of his surroundings sliding away with alarming rapidity.

 

Basketball, fans, the ESPYs, they’re all fading into unimportance. All that matters is the warm wet slide of LeBron’s mouth on him, and the steady rhythm of his head. Steph’s breathing is catching shorter, faster, and higher in his throat. Someone’s whimpering in little anxious pants, and he just realizes it’s his own voice wrapped around those sounds when LeBron comes down farther, sucks a little harder. Steph’s vision bursts into white.

 

He takes a deep breath, drawn long and gasping in his throat, and LeBron must know he’s going because he reaches out to grab at Steph’s hip even before the other man arches up, tips his head back, and groans out almost-pained reaction as he rocks up into LeBron’s mouth and comes hot and bitter against the other man’s tongue. A wave of heat that washes over him from his curling toes to his blushing cheeks, and LeBron pulls back, replaces his mouth with his hand to stroke Steph through the shivering waves of his orgasm.

 

Steph doesn’t think about the mess for a minute, not until his vision has cleared and the tension in his body has faded into languid exhaustion. Then he processes that LeBron’s fingers are still sticky around him, and when he looks up, he can see damp caught at the other boy’s lips. Embarrassment comes hard on the heels of pleasure to light his skin back up.

 

He quickly puts a hand over his face and tries to turn away, ashamed. “Oh god.” His hand doesn’t cover his face from LeBron’s gaze, but it helps darken his own vision so for a minute he can pretend he doesn’t exist. “Fuck, LeBron, I’m-I’m sorry.” There’s a sound of spitting, and Steph realized that the other never swallowed, which he never expected him to, really never expected any of this.

 

“Shut up,” LeBron’s voice comes. His hand pulls away, and there’s the sound of fabric rustling. When Steph risks a glance the other man is wiping his fingers against his shirt before reaching down to the sheets covering his groin, which was tented very obviously at this point. “You’re gonna’ serve me now.”

 

Steph’s hands come up to touch LeBron’s chest cautiously. He can feel his eyes getting wider, panic and interest and uncertainty all warring for the upper hand. LeBron leans back on his feet, sliding the sheet down a few inches with no apparent self-consciousness at Steph’s eyes on him. “That’s what you really want, right?” He’s settling against the bed now, wrapping his fingers around himself with the casual comfort of extensive experience. “To serve the king.”

 

Despite the ridiculous sentiment, Steph makes another little whine in his throat. He can’t make himself move and look away from the movement of LeBron’s fingers and the hard shape of the other’s length against his fingers. LeBron shifts his hips to change his angle, resettles his fingers, and slides his hand up once, slow and smooth at once.

 

“Like what you see?” He purrs, and Steph looks up, sharp and embarrassed to be caught staring. LeBron is watching him, eyes wide and shadowed, but his lips are parted, like he can’t breathe enough air through his nose and his gaze isn’t entirely in focus.

 

His hair is ruffled up, as much as it can, from Steph’s hold, his skin damp and flushed with heat, and Steph can see his eyes flicker farther out of attention as he starts to move his hand, strokes over himself faster than Steph ever does to himself, like it’s a race and he’s determined to win.

 

“Yes,” Steph hears himself saying, and he’s moving in, awkward with the sheets under him. LeBron hesitates, stalls the movement of his hand, and Steph crawls in over the distance, leans in close so he can feel the warmth of the other’s body. He’s blushing, still, self-conscious and awkward now, but his hands obey when he tells them to move.

 

LeBron pulls his hand away, and Step doesn’t look down, doesn’t trust himself to keep going if he can see now. It’s a familiar shape, heat, hardness, and the quick sliding of his hand brings a moan from the LeBron’s throat and of a flush of heat under his own skin.

 

“More,” LeBron growls, slides a little farther down the bed so he’s closer to prone than upright. “More, Steph.” He’s flushed and he’s breathing hard, and Steph reaches for the speed he saw in the movement of the other man’s wrist, moves faster in experimentation. It feels too fast and too hard, but LeBron arches into it, groans “Yes” with all the shattered purr of satisfaction in his voice. Steph swallows hard, and braces himself on his elbows beside him, leaning his face into LeBron’s shoulder a bit.

 

LeBron is much more active than Steph expects for someone being served. He’s rocking up hard into his touch, arching off the bed and sliding farther down until he really is lying on mattress, panting and humming and thrusting up into Steph’s hold like it’s not enough sensation otherwise. Steph’s still trying to feel out the shape of the situation when LeBron’s breath catches a moment before reaching up his fingers to close on Steph’s wrist.

 

“Yes,” he says, sharp and delighted. “My good bitch.” His words dissolve into a hum, another rocking thrust, and his fingers clench tight, so hard Steph flinches in pain from the strength of his hold. “Don’t stop,” He orders, so loud Steph is sure their neighbors will hear, but he doesn’t have time to panic before the other is arching off the bed, sucking in a long drawn-out breath. When Steph jerks his hand up too-fast with nerves , LeBron groans and falls back to the bed and comes hot against the his fingers.

 

Steph doesn’t know what to do after. LeBron is lying across the bed, smiling and panting and naked, and Steph’s wrist is aching from his motion. LeBron sighs, and he’s moving away and Steph lets go, whipping his hand idly on the sheets. The other sits up, runs a hand through his hair and sighs like the entire world has aligned itself to him for this moment, like it often does in reality.

 

“Come here,” LeBron sighs, and Steph suddenly feels fingers closing on his wrist as LeBron sits up and slides in closer. When he gets in closer, LeBron’s face is outlined by the light behind him and his eyes are shining as much as his grin. “Are you fucking listening?” LeBron asks, and Steph doesn’t speak, can’t find words before the other is leaning in to press his just-parted lips against Steph’s. It takes a moment for Steph’s adrenaline to catch up to events. For a breath, there’s just careful input from his skin, eyes, ears: LeBron’s hold is going loose on his wrist and he’s sighing warm air over his lips.

 

The contact lingers, warm and wet, and some construct in Steph’s mind hisses at him to close his eyes like a normal person, so he does. With his eyes shut, his other senses jump into sharp relief: the heat of LeBron’s fingers still steadying himself on LeBron’s wrist, the soft sound of him breathing, and the damp skin of LeBron’s chest against his own.

 

When there’s a warm wet pressure against his mouth, he gasps, opens his mouth to voice a protest or an exclamation and then a tongue is in his mouth, sliding against the roof of his mouth and pressing against his tongue, too. Steph’s head is going fuzzy with heat and distraction, but when he shifts his tongue experimentally, he can feel LeBron purr of delight so he keeps going, pushes back harder at the feel of fingers tensing on his wrist, and then they really are kissing again. This never gets old.

 

About a minute later, LeBron pulls back slowly. Steph doesn’t try to move at all, just stays where he is, leaning against his chest, waiting patiently while LeBron slides free of his mouth to leave him free to resume the pretense of breathing. His mouth is damp, the corner of his lips wet from the force of LeBron’s motion. Steph waits for what LeBron wants to do next, until it’s only his grip at his hip holding him upright.

 

Then LeBron finally slides free, lets his hold go, so Steph collapses to the mattress underneath him awkwardly. Luckily, he puts a hand out and stops himself, watching LeBron with an annoyed and confused expression. Steph looks faintly frustrated, flushed like he’s maybe ready for another round, but LeBron just looks suddenly blank as if it’s a practice match he’s just watched.

 

LeBron isn’t looking at him. He grabs his shorts from the day before on the floor, slips them on and grabs his cell phone from the night stand, and it’s a sign to Steph that they’re done here. He still stares, though, his focus utterly derailed by heat and shock and lingering arousal, until it’s LeBron who says, “It’s getting late,” echoing his earlier statement while Steph’s still kneeling against the bed.

 

“Oh,” Steph says, looking down, wondering what he should say here and adds a quick “Yeah,” stumbling to his feet and sliding off the bed. Looking around the room, he spots his clothes from earlier and rushes over, trying not to look awkward. LeBron isn’t looking at him at this point anyways, messing with his phone and scratching his chest. Sometimes Steph wonders why he even does this to himself, pulling his shorts on before finishing with his shirt. “Gonna’ start training again soon?” Steph asks weakly, trying to break the awkward silence.

 

LeBron glances up at him. The light is behind his head, casting his face in shadow and half-blinding Steph, but for just a moment, Steph thinks there might be a flicker of a frown against his mouth, a momentary softness in his eyes. “Yeah, all done with vacation now,” He answers. He sounds tired, tiered than Steph has ever heard him. Then he turns, and whatever softness was there is hidden by the line of his jaw from Steph’s view. Steph wonders again if this is LeBron getting annoyed with a reminder of reality, the fact that they will be back to playing regularly again soon, facing each other once more.

 

“Gotta’ get ready to kick your ass again,” He says without looking up from his phone this time. He’s suiting his own actions to his words, though he’s doing so with more grace than Steph can currently manage. “This time I might even try.”

 

Of course, Steph thinks to himself, the easy topic. He grits his teeth and braces himself harder against the support of the wall at his shoulder. At least LeBron won’t be able to see the telltale shift of his motion with his eyes cast down to follow the rhythmic drag of his hand over flushed skin. “Ya’ll almost lost it all,” He reminds him, and hopes LeBron won’t notice his annoyed expression.

 

LeBron lifts his chin at that, raising his eyes to glare shadows at him. “Three to one,” He offers, grinning this time.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Steph sighs. “Next year is gonna’ be different.” He pulls his hand off the wall, shifts his weight around, so he can move towards the door, grabbing the door handle. The other doesn’t speak; for a moment Steph’s not going to either. But then affection or sentimentality gets the best of him, and he says, “Until next time?” before he can stop the sentence from surging up into a plaintive question.

 

He pauses with his hand on the door handle. LeBron watches him, only hesitates in his answer, and when he speaks, Steph can’t see his face because he looks back down at his phone. But he can hear the smile under the words, can pick out the hint of almost-softness in the syllables, and it’s enough, as it is always enough.

 

“We’ll see.”

 

Steph swallows and pulls the door open quickly, trying to stick his head out awkwardly to look for anyone in the hall. Glancing back at LeBron one more time, he sighs when he sees the other not even looking his way. Annoyed and tired, Steph pulls the door close as he steps out into the empty hall. It only takes him a minute or two of quick walking to get over to the elevator, trying to look uninterested and innocent in his actions.

 

 Strangely, the possibility of losing to LeBron again doesn’t seem all that terrible at the moment, as long as they get to play again..

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's not that good. Oh well. Probably gonna do a follow up? But not as a chapter of this. Let me know what you think. More to come anyways!
> 
> P.S.  
> Did ya'll watch the Christmas game ? Best present ever! ;) Am I gonna get a tech for that wink?

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to comment or leave kudos so I know if people are still interested. T_T
> 
> Don't be afraid to hit me up on tumblr either @ checkmatey.tumblr.com


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